For Which It Stands
by Ukaisha
Summary: War is an unpleasant background noise to Craig. He has no idea the lengths that people are willing to go, or how much they're willing to gamble when they have nothing left. Kenny, on the other hand, knows all too well the sacrifices one has to make if they want to change the world, and in the end, when the chips are down, he knows what it takes to stand for something. (Crenny)
1. Authors' Notes

Author Notes:

This story is not completely uploaded here but it is completely uploaded on AO3 under the same name. Unfortunately ffn's uploading system is a little more of a headache and will take me a bit longer. I will try to update the story at a reasonable rate.

In November 2013, I was deployed to Bahrain on a year long mission as an active duty US Army soldier. It was pretty easy all things considering and I had a lot to be grateful for. I mean, I had some access to internet (even if it was pretty shoddy at times) and I had a bed and my hours weren't totally unreasonable and when it got hot I had reliable air conditioning. But being separated from my friends and family gave me a lot of time to think, and it also gave me a lot of time to write.

In December 2013, I started this story. It's still not exactly done; I'm probably going to keep adding to it and modifying some things over the next few months. But in August 2014, three months before my deployment was over, I finished with the current product I've uploaded here.

This story was my submission for the South Park Big Bang 2014, but the truth is that that was just sort of supplementary. It was more than just a submission, although I certainly thank BB for everything they do every year. This story was life for me. It kept me sane for eight months. It gave me something to hold onto when I started sinking into the worst depression I've had since my teenage years. It was so important to me at the time that at some points it was literally all that kept me going.

Now I look back on it and realize that some of it is rushed and not very well executed and there are some things I might have done differently. I mean, the final product is 450,000 words long. In eight months. Of course it's not going to be perfect.

But I guess I'm going to keep it this way for now. I suppose it's good enough.

This story is told from Craig's POV. He is a middle-aged man recalling the years of his life during the late 2000's, from about 2006-2009, when he went from being an apathetic teenager uncaring of everything around him to something very difficult to describe. Kenny is also a very complicated character in this story, incredibly complex on his own and made harder to grasp by the fact that we can only see him from Craig's limited perspective.

This was the first time I have done POV in several years, and it was also the first time I have really done Craig as a main character. It was a challenge, but nothing compared to the challenges that the characters face in the story, to include politics, love, drugs, abuse, humanity, and forgiveness. It's a very heavy story and it touches a lot of lines, if not outright crosses them. I can understand entirely if you find yourself unable to finish it, but if you do happen to like it and you finish it, I would truly really appreciate any kind of critical analysis you can offer. I'm really interested in hearing not just what people thought of the story, but also what they got out of it.

This story is not based on a true story or inspired by a true story, at least none in particular. Most of the characters are borrowed from Comedy Central's South Park, but their personalities and lives are not based on any real person's. Neither are any original characters. Any similarities are coincidental. There are several political events in the story that are brought up and discussed, and while sometimes they are referenced erroneously due to the characters being young and ignorant, if there is anything that you note to be false and it doesn't seem to be intentional, let me know and I'll fix it. I had to do a lot of research for this story to write it and most of it was researched on unreliable internet that gave out frequently and I often had to stretch small bits of information as far as I could. Please note that the political opinions listed in this story are not necessarily my own and that this story is not attempting to push a political agenda on anyone.

I need to dedicate a small section here to my dear friend James, who not only patiently beta read this story and helped me through some of the trickier plot points I had to tackle, but for being the other major force that got me through my deployment. FWIS kept me distracted; James kept me happy. About as happy as I could be anyway. He is more than I could have ever asked for when in that situation and one of two people in the world who mean more to me than I do to myself. I really can't thank him enough for his support. He is the epitome of a true, true friend.

Enjoy the ride.

-Ukaisha


	2. Prologue: Something to Believe In

**Prologue**

For Which It Stands

_ I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. _

The Pledge of Allegiance (as of 1954) 

Something To Believe In

I think a lot of people disagree on what it was that started the war, and why the hell not? We were always disagreeing with each other about everything anyway, especially back then. Some will tell you that it started September 11th, 2001, and some will tell you that it started with George Bush Sr. back in Desert Storm. Some will probably tell you that it started decades ago when it really started hitting home how precious fossil fuel was, and some will probably say it started hundreds of hundreds of years ago with the countless religious wars and lives lost during them.

For me, the war started two different times, two very separate times, and to me, they were so completely different that it's difficult to believe that they were the same war, or that I was the same kid.

The first time the war started was in the boy's restroom in South Park Elementary School. It was probably the last piss in the old life for me, probably the longest in the world, and fuck, I'd only been in there three or four minutes.

In the time it took me to enter and exit that bathroom, a plane had been flown into the World Trade Center, or at least one of the two towers anyway, and the nation was up in arms. And there were more planes to come. We would, in morbid fascination and almost quizzical horror, watch them come. There would be smoke and fire and crushed metal and bodies crushed _under_ the metal; so many bodies. Ground Zero was a morgue. And like an audience of depraved voyeurs, we would watch, and then we would continue to watch from afar as we sent more bodies into the desert as retribution.

I was eleven years old. I didn't care. Not like I should have. Not a whole lot matters to an eleven year old, and I was no exception.

Although, I should argue that not a lot mattered to me long after I'd stopped having childhood to blame for my indifference.

The second time the war started for me was on a graffiti covered bridge in the park, whereupon three boys, myself included, contributed to what would later become symbolic of everything we would ever do in our lives. For some, the country was united under the flag or the cross or the silhouette of two skyscrapers smoking and then crumbling to the ground, like cigarettes, burning and turning to ash.

I was united under the illusion that love was infinite.

And why not love? Can't anyone believe in love, even a lousy kid with an attitude and a chip on his shoulder?

Love was _something_ to believe in; it was _something_ to hold onto when the rest of the country seemed to lose itself in the blind hate it called "love for country." Love was the grace that gave birth to me and then just as easily killed me. Love led me to everything that was responsible for setting the course of my life, even though it was love that led me astray in the first place.

Maybe it wasn't worth falling in love, just like it wasn't worth sending thousands of this country's sons and daughters to die in the desert, and how it wasn't worth singing "God Bless the USA" at a ballgame and then driving by the armless, homeless vet begging for change on a street corner, and how it wasn't worth donning American flags and rallying in the streets and shouting that this was not our war.

Maybe nothing is really worth it in the end.

I don't know. I haven't gotten to the end yet.


	3. Prologue: Relevant Information

Relevant Information

There's only a few things you need to know about me, and I will tell you now to spare you the trouble of having to dig through all of this to find out. If there is one thing I promise you, it's that I cannot stand guessing games, and mysteries are the bane of my existence. I simply want to know what something is; all I want out of all the squandering in the world are the basic facts. The most relevant information.

You'll find later that it is this impertinent fact about me that probably causes so much of my grief. I encourage you to criticize me later, but for now I ask you to bear with me.

I am not yet an old man. A man, yes, probably older than you, and much older than I was when the war started, (on both accounts) but I am by no means elderly. The only other thing worth noting is that I still have all my hair, which is kind of mother nature given to how prone I was to shaving it off as a teenager.

Having just expressed to you a blatant antipathy towards keeping secrets, I will inform you that there is another small detail about me that is relevant, and will in fact be vital at the end of this narrative. You'll probably know it when you see it. However, I will not tell you this fact yet because it is not relevant to the story itself, nor does it really define who I am.

See, there are varying degrees of relevancy. What is important to the story may not necessarily be relevant to me, and what is relevant to me may not necessarily be relevant to the story.

This is just my way of informing you that I am something of a hypocritical asshole, and to take everything I say with a grain of salt. I am often told I'm something of a bland storyteller, anyway.

The town I grew up in was composed of a little less than a thousand people altogether. It was a statutory town in the Colorado Rockies, one of many small towns in the area that boasted maybe between four and seven hundred people in the entire populace, and thus remained an isolated and self-sufficient little pit in the middle of the mountains far away from the rest of the world. My town in particular was South Park, which was about a twenty minute drive outside of Fairplay and roughly two hours from Denver, if that gives you a better grasp of its geography. You probably couldn't find it on a regular map, not that you would normally want to.

I live in California now, in El Segundo, a city less well known than its cousin Santa Monica but no less beautiful. When I feel well enough to travel, I still visit the old hometown now and then. My parents and my sister still live back in Colorado, and we're all generally on good terms, although we're all still as hot-headed as ever and all we ever do is argue. But, I think arguing is sometimes one of those less-traveled roads that still ultimately leads to love.

I don't really keep up with any of my old friends aside from the bare minimum, but I'll do them a courtesy and run through them real quick.

Clyde I think is doing well enough; he lives in El Paso now, and his blog tells me that he just had his first girl after his first two prodigies wound up sons. I thought it was kinda late for kids at this point, (as you'll find out in due time, Clyde was always kinda late) but wasn't that just so "American Dream?" Three kids and a wife and a dog? And in fuckin' Texas, Christ. Dear old Clyde.

Token moved to Aurora and I think he's in pharmaceuticals like his mom, but he plays bass in a local jazz band some nights; I've been to see him play. There's been a woman come and gone, but that's just life, isn't it? Even the nicest guys can lose at the love game. At least he still gets to see his kid, unlike a lot of folks out there.

Jimmy's writing books nowadays, mostly satire based on observational humor, and he sends us copies when he gets them published. I don't think he's very big, but he's pretty happy. I believe he's engaged and will be settling down somewhere in Wyoming. Again, a little late on the draw, but then again none of my friends were really the punctual type.

I don't know what happened to Tweek. I lost track of him a long time ago. I think he wanted us to lose track of him; in fact, I'm certain of it. I still wonder, sometimes. I wonder about a lot of things these days, and sometimes I don't think it's Kenny I wonder about most, but Tweek.

The others were never really that important, except for one, and he didn't even really become important until later. Then he became everything.

But you'll get an earful about all that soon enough. I'm still just trying to dress the stage now so I don't have to go back and do it all over again.

If there's one thing I hate more than mysteries, it's explanations. Reasons. Excuses. I just want the story to be laid out, plain to see, easy to read, and simple to understand. You might find my method of delivering this story a little jarring, if not outright frustrating, and a lot of times you'll probably be wondering what it is that's so important that I'm taking great pains to tell it to you. What exactly the point is to any of this.

People have tried to tell me that the key to writing is showing, not telling, but unfortunately I lack the foresight, the imagination, and quite frankly, the patience. I'm no writer; I am an individual who has lived a stolid existence for the entirety of my life, and it is only because I sometimes see the end in the distance that I find it worthwhile to write all of this down. So that at least, when I do reach that end, whenever it may come, I can feel that it may actually mean something.

So I'm gonna do the best I can. I'm a little wiser than the kid you're about to meet, and I know that it's rarely ever as simple as simply making a story a story. But for the sake of my own sanity, I intend keep this as basic as possible. The story of how it happened.

How what happened, you're probably wondering. And let's be honest: I'm kind of surprised you've made it even this far, not knowing exactly what the story is about while I give away all the endings and utterly disregard your comfort as a factor. What's left, you wonder, if you already know how everything turns out? If you don't even know if it's even worth starting, let alone finishing?

If you were me, you would probably just walk away. You don't like mystery and you don't like wondering, and most of all, you probably don't care.

This persona defines who you are, and you're probably proud of that fact. I always was. It's not your skeleton or your flesh that holds you together, but your pride, and your pride comes in the form of indifference and austere, carefully calculated apathy. It's your entire personage, and you proudly wear your indifference like a badge, or rather, like a suit of armor. It truly is armor, because it certainly looks impressive, and you need it to protect you. Without it, you are nothing.

But if you were me in the fall of 2006, and you had walked away from a boy with a can of spray paint and a boy with a bloody American flag over his mouth and a boy whose outstretched hand trembled with the keys that would haunt you for the rest of your life, there would be no story.

But then again, a lot of stories happen when someone does something unexpected. A lot of stories happen BECAUSE someone does something unexpected.

This story is no different, and what happened was this: for the first time in my life, I cared.


	4. Prologue: Threshold

Threshold

I sit here at my computer, staring at the screen and wondering where to start, and thinking that there wasn't really a start. It didn't start with the rallies or the bandanas or the graffiti in the park or the bombs. It just sort of started.

Don't most things? It doesn't just start raining because the clouds felt some whim that day and stars don't explode because fuck it, why not; a lot of little things all come together in the end to somehow create something complex and wonderful, even though the little things themselves are all inconsequential and, at first glance, irrelevant.

But the screen, blank and white, it kind of reminds me of snow. You don't see much snow on the west coast; not down south, anyway. At the time it seemed like a godsend going from perpetual winter to perpetual summer, but sometimes, I kind of miss snow.

So I think I'll start with snow. That and a few other things.

Allow me to explain to you the importance of snow in the attic, my country and my family, crepes and lingonberries, the Broncos' Cadillac, a brush with destiny, and the boy who refused to stand.

That all seems as good a beginning as any.

More beginnings can happen later. There always seems to be more beginnings, but nothing ever seems to end.


	5. Part One: When You're Young

**Part One  
><strong>  When You're Young 

-

_When you're young, you think everything you do is disposable. You move from now to now, crumpling time up in your hands, tossing it away. You're your own speeding car. You think you can get rid of things, and people too – leave them behind. You don't yet know about the habit they have of coming back._

Margaret Atwood


	6. Part One: Snow in the Attic

The first snow in 2006 was in October, and I didn't just wake up to it; I woke up in it.

I had left my window open the previous night, and the wind had been blowing like old people fuck, as my dad always said.

That is, the wind was blowing long and slow and sideways.

The phrase never made much sense to me, but he said it often enough, and like most children, I often picked up on things my parents said. I think the first time I used the phrase, I was checking out at a grocery store, and I startled the bejesus out of my cashier. Evidently, it's a unique Tuckerism.

As for the snow that had hitched a ride on the wind, my blankets were covered in a fine little layer of the stuff, and I could feel the icy flakes clinging to my hair. I think it was their melting and then dripping down the side of the shaved part of my head that had woken me. It was early, a pale and gray morning, and my alarm hadn't even gone off yet.

I reluctantly threw off my covers and stumbled off of my mattress, shivering my whole way to the window until I could grab hold of it and slam it down. There hadn't been too much spillage into the room; just enough to cover a little bit of the floor and unknowing, sleeping me.

Nonetheless, as I trailed back to my mattress, I left a neat little set of footprints along the way.

Ducking low so as not to bump my head on the fake ceiling, holding my bare arms close to my chest and shivering into my tank top, I eventually fell back onto my mattress, knees first, and I brushed off all of the powdery little flakes before they could melt. Then the rest of me collapsed, and I flung my blankets over me, curling up into a ball and puffing into my hands to breathe life back into them.

Overhead, the heater was sporadically belching warm air into the room. Whatever snow was left was quickly melting as the temperature started resembling something habitable, or as habitable as an attic gets.

Let me get something straight, because I always had to deal with these questions from nosy people who can't mind their own damn business.

I asked to move to the attic.

My parents didn't like it, but I am very convincing.

I used to have my own room, one on the second story, but I didn't like it there. It was too noisy. All of our bedrooms were right next to each other, and mine was right in the middle of all the action. And let me tell you: I heard too much.

I heard any movement that anyone made. I heard when someone left to go somewhere or came back from somewhere, and when anyone went to the bathroom and what they did in there. I heard my sister talking to her girlfriends about boys and my parents arguing about bills. Fuck, I could hear my parents having sex now and then, and no kid needs to hear a fuck in a barn during a barn dance.

I have never been to a barn dance. It's just another Tuckerism. I'll spread them out a little more.

The attic was well insulated; it had to be, or else the rest of the house would get cold in the six months out of the year it was winter. The roof was solid and it didn't leak when it rained. It kept out the wind and, usually, the snow. There was no problem with vermin or pests. We installed a heater to keep it warm and I jimmied a fake ceiling to hide the unpleasantness of the beams and rafters. I even painted it, indigo, and glued glow in the dark stars on it. They accurately portrayed a night sky's constellations, and I would spend many sleepless nights staring at them.

The attic wasn't the best bedroom ever. Sure, I'd sprung up a few inches over the summer and had to crouch now. And sure, my mattress was on the ground and my toes could hang off the edge if they wanted to, and sure, my floor had no carpet; just wood that was often cold.

But I liked my attic bedroom. It was isolated. No one ever came to bother me like they did in the old room; before, everyone was always knocking on my door and asking me stupid questions, and now everyone left me alone. It was quiet. The hubbub of modern living didn't really reach the attic; not even arguing.

It was my own little space and that was very important to me. I was a very lonesome kid, and I craved solitude more than anything. It always made me very uncomfortable to be around people, so I preferred to be alone.

Well, almost alone.

After I finished shivering myself back up to temperature and the heater had more or less done its job, I emerged from my blanket cocoon a second time.

There was not really much space to move around. I had an iron cast trunk for clean clothes not far from my bed, and a hamper a little further for dirty stuff. Most of my books, most of which had gone untouched, were scattered haphazardly around the floor. I was not really what you would call a "reader" back then, but that would soon change.

Other than the mattress, the most significant item in the room was a giant metal cage. Inside it, a fat guinea pig was hiding somewhere in the hay.

I crawled over to it. There was no reason to stand, and I had gotten tired of bashing my skull into wood every time I stood up. The floor was cold on my bare hands and knees, but it was better than walking barefoot in snow.

I hovered over the cage, smiling gently and lacing my fingers in the cold wire walls. There was a black and brown bit of fuzz just visible through the hay, and it was still. Just sleeping, I hoped.

I didn't want to alarm him, but I was worried that after a night of it being colder than usual, he might not have taken it well. Guinea pigs are from the Andes, and the average temperature there is around sixty degrees.

It was only October, so I figured it hadn't dipped below ten degrees, but it must have been at least twenty or so last night for the snow to pile in like it did. That was a damn big difference for a small animal.

I give all of these degrees in Fahrenheit, of course; I know these days everyone's all uppity about us switching to Celsius, but I'm an old fart and old habits die hard.

I find it relevant to inform you that I really, really like guinea pigs. I've had a pet guinea pig my whole life, and I've never wanted anything else. The love of my life, Stripe, died when I was thirteen. He'd lived a good long life, although he might have lived longer had some of my cousins not been little fuckheads. Regardless, I had been heart broken.

About a year ago, right before I moved into the attic, I got a new guinea pig. He was long-haired, unlike Stripe, who'd been short-haired, and he was covered in black, brown, and white splotches.

I called him Spot.

I've been told numerous times in my life that I sorely lack imagination and originality. This does not offend me, because it's true, and I appreciate honesty.

I opened the wire cage and stuck my hand in, giving him plenty of warning and time to react if he wanted to.

He curiously poked his head out of his hay and nosed around in the air, finally resting his big black eyes on my descending hand.

He nosed around my palm when I laid it flat on his bed, but he wouldn't quite walk onto it just yet, which continued to disappoint me. Stripe always walked right onto my hand, and he'd go all the way up to my shoulders if I let him.

Instead, I wound up just gently picking Spot up, and he made a few grumpy noises in protest until I brought him up to my chest and rest him on my arm. Then he seemed content, and he crawled up and down my whole arm a few times, exploring.

He wasn't shivering or sneezing or lethargic. His body temperature seemed normal. All seemed well.

I repositioned myself to sit criss-cross in front of his cage, and for a while, I let him wander around. Mostly he crawled on me, (probably because I was warm) and more than once I had to stop him from crawling up my legs and into my boxers. He was a curious son of a gun, and in the past his curiosity had led to him getting lost somewhere in the house and winding up scaring the ever-loving fuck out of my mother a few days later.

I thought it was kind of funny, to be honest. But I still worried.

Eventually, I grew bored and so did Spot, and he stopped roaming around, instead curling up right on my thigh and pressing against my stomach. He didn't last very long there; I plucked him up and held him in my arms, and I pet him absently while he cooed softly. I began maneuvering to my feet, using only my legs for leverage and trying not to disturb the little bundle of fur in my arms.

I was so preoccupied with keeping Spot undisturbed that I stood straight up, and I cracked my skull right up against that fake wood ceiling, and goddamn if that shit didn't hurt like a motherfucker. Ain't the first time I'd done it, and it wouldn't be the last, not as long as I stayed holed up in a fuckin' attic.

I swore loudly and reached up to rub my offended cranium, but I held Spot close, trying not to rattle him too much. It wasn't his fault.

Still, I wasn't looking forward to the headache I was sure to be nursing all day now, and I felt free to mouth off a few more words I'd have never used around my mother.

Spot didn't mind.

While he patiently dealt with my hissed string of curses at first, eventually he made it clear he wanted his cage back, and I obliged the wriggling rodent by setting him carefully back into his bedding. He found his hole and snuggled right back into it, no worse for the wear.

As predicted, I felt a headache coming on.

My hands smelled like guinea pig and dusty hay, which I kinda liked, but I was sure to get an earful about if I went downstairs to breakfast like that. My mother would probably be the only one to be up this early, if anyone WAS up this early, and she was the only one who had a problem with Spot. Or, more specifically, rodents in general.

I'd showered last night before bed, but I was cold and feeling like a little hot water would spruce me up. So I gathered up a change of clothes and made sure Spot's food and water was full, and then I stood up again to head off.

I very nearly hit my head on the ceiling again on the way up, but I saved it just in time. God, it was a curse being tall.

Not that I was freakishly tall for my age. Back then I was probably still 5'11", maybe just nearly 6' even. I'd just always been one of those tall and lanky motherfuckers, but not skinny. Don't insult me. Not that I was all lean and muscly or anything, nor was I really fat and bulgy either, but I definitely wasn't skinny. I guess I was just sorta in between. Whatever; it's not important.

By the time I escaped high school I would be hovering thereabouts 6'3", just under my dad who clocked in at 6'4". My height was probably about the only thing I had in common with my dad, and it was more coincidence than genetics, if you get my drift.

If you don't, don't worry about it. I'll be explaining shortly.

I dropped my clothes through the trap door that led to the second story. Then I sat down and let my legs fall through, and I found a good grip on the edge to hold onto. I let the rest of me fall through all at once, dangling off the edge for a few seconds before finally falling neatly to my feet.

There had been a ladder originally, but I'd dismantled it. Made it more difficult for people to come in and out. Besides, I was tall enough to not care.

So height's a blessing and a curse. Aren't most things?

Guinea pigs, for instance. They poop a lot and they bite you sometimes, but everything else is pretty good; cute fuzzy bodies and they waddle around all cute and when they cuddle you they make cute little noises. They're just plain cute in general, if you think about it.

A note: you may have assumed me by this point to be pretty standoffish, distant; a pretty cold fish. I've established that I care very little about very few things, and maybe, after seeing me with Spot, you're starting to think that your initial assumptions weren't right at all.

They were. I was all of the above and more, and I urge you not to forget it. I just liked guinea pigs.

This is a valuable lesson for you to remember. Don't look for reasons to redeem me throughout this recollection. I assure you, there is nothing in this chapter or any other chapter that follows that redeems my character in any way, and if you think you've found something, I guarantee that within a few pages I'm bound to fuck it up somehow. I am not being self-deprecating; I am being honest.

But that's okay. You don't have to like me; I don't _want_ you to like me. I didn't like me very much either.

I sneaked through the house, practically tip-toeing as I crossed the hall to the bathroom and passed my family's bedrooms, the doors to which were both closed and the insides of which were both quiet.

It was still early, and I had no interest in being the one to wake them up before their time, even if it did wind up being only a lousy twenty minutes or so.

When I secured the bathroom for myself and locked the door behind me, I wrinkled my nose in disgust at what I found lying around.

Frilly things.

Maybe I was prudish, but the last thing I wanted to see in the morning was a bra hanging off the towel rack and used panties bunched up in a corner. Such was the curse of living with women, and I admit that this is one curse I've yet to find an opposing blessing.

Hint, hint.

Other than that, there was a used towel draped over the shower rod, water on the floor from whoever had showered last, and the faucet drip, drip, dripping steadily in the background.

This faucet used to keep me up at night with its dripping. My family members were perpetual faucet twisting offenders, and it was probably about thirty percent of the reason I had wanted to move to the attic in the first place. I might just be vindictive, though. I am generally a patient person, but we all have our limits.

I pulled the towel off of the rod and threw it to the floor, all at once removing the offending dirty item from my sight and mopping up the water. Then I shed my boxers and tank top, throwing them in the hamper after, (you know, where dirty clothes actually belonged?) and then I twisted the shower faucet.

I shivered on the edge of the shower for a good minute, naked as the day I was born, and then the water finally got warm and I practically threw myself into it. I just soaked in the stream for a few minutes, mindlessly numb to everything except feeling warm, and then I went to work.

See, I'll call out my own bullshit more than once in this story; make a note of it. I was a know it all and a hypocrite and thoughtless and careless and a piece of shit teenager all the way through it; mark my words. But if there was one thing that set me apart from other males my own age, let it be this: I liked to be clean.

Nothing infuriated me more than feeling unclean. I showered twice, sometimes three times a day. I used to wash my hair at least once a day, although since shaving half of it off that was not quite so true anymore.

In that period of my life, foregoing a shower was about the hardest thing for me to do. Remember this.

I don't mean to insult your intelligence by insisting that you should recall certain things over others. In fact, you really should try to retain everything I tell you. The only reason I tell you anything is because it's relevant, remember? I know there's quite a lot of pieces to it, but just like a jigsaw puzzle, every piece matters. I'll try to put them together for you in a way that makes sense; just promise me you'll try to pay attention as I do it.

I only point out this in particular because, while it seems unimportant to you, it's important to me. At least respect, for now, that guinea pigs and showers and solitary attic bedrooms are important to me, and compare it to the Craig at the end of this story.

Just for fun.

I lathered up my loofah (don't you fucking dare; I liked how it felt on my skin) and, as stated, went to work. Arms, legs, torso, back, and unmentionables; all scrubbed clean. Then, for the sake of completing the task, I shampooed my hair, and using my roughly trimmed nails to scrub my scalp really well before I rinsed it, and then I gently massaged in conditioner.

As I've mentioned more than once, some of my hair was shaved. The sides, anyway. I'd started doing it over the summer. Not all the way, mind, but quite a lot, leaving ample enough on the top for a mohawk (should I ever care enough to fashion one, which was basically never) but not enough to come down into my eyes, although some strands just barely reached my ears. My hair was naturally jet black and, for as high maintenance as I was, thank you very much, it was very shiny. Although years later it would finally start coming in a little brown, (and, at times, gray) at the time it was so utterly dark that I was often accused of dying it.

Later I would dye my hair, but not black; blue. Kenny would dye his red. We always lamented there was not a third to dye his white, so that we might stand out a little more during protests. Tweek had never wanted to go quite that far. I think our determination scared him as much as the other side did. Of course, I wasn't keen on listening to him, then; I was too overwhelmed with the fervor that was Kenny.

But that's not until the summer of 2007. This was all a long time ago, sorry. I keep getting sidetracked. It's hard enough to keep it all straight as it is. Remember, I've never done this before, and I'm still waiting to hit my stride, so be patient with me. I know my maverick-style autobiography is a little weird, but I'm doing my best here.

I blissfully stood in the steaming stream, turning the faucet just slightly to the left every minute or so as I exhausted our little water heater's reserves, and then I finally rinsed myself clean, scrubbing the last of the suds off of my skin and hair.

I liked running my fingers through my hair after a shower, especially when it dried a bit. It was pin straight, not remotely wavy, and in the mountains you didn't see much humidity. That shit was silk smooth when it was clean, soft as a baby's ass, and I don't even need you to be smart with me. Yeah I was vain; I was a teenager.

I toweled myself dry in the mist, and then I used that towel to wipe clean the mirror of condensation before throwing it into the hamper. My skin was still red and sweating from the hot water, and I let myself cool off still in the nude while I brushed my teeth and washed my face.

Yes, I had just showered. I was extremely prone to acne and it had made me very miserable in middle school, and I needed to use cleansing shit to keep it at bay. It may have contributed to my obsession with cleanliness for the rest of me, but at least I was no longer quite so acne ridden.

When I'd cooled down and dried off, I pulled on clean boxers and an undershirt, and then the rest of my clothes on top of it. Another shirt, just a plain tee for the sake of layering, and then a plain blue polo on top of it.

My high school had started enforcing a basic dress code: collared shirts, tucked in with belt, no graphics on shirts or hoodies and no unserviceable (ripped or stained) jeans. It was a bit of a joke and not many even adhered to the collared shirt rule, but I did at least that, if only because I didn't the others. My jeans were ripped in various places, (not because I bought them like that to look cool, but because they were old; most of my clothes were old for reasons I will soon reveal) and I think I owned exactly one belt that might have been at the bottom of my chest somewhere.

My winter coat was on the coat rack near the door, so this was how I left the bathroom, stopping in the hall just outside the doorway to pull on my socks after I'd left the wet tile behind.

My next stop would be the kitchen, where I was anticipating breakfast. Cereal and hopefully coffee, if no one minded me snagging some of it today. Things were sometimes a bit up in the air when it came to food in my house, although not nearly so much as they were with Kenny.

Unfortunately, interrupting my usual morning ritual would be the fact that it was late October, 2006, and America was still in the middle of some godforsaken war. As I have already told you, I did not care much about it at this point, but the unfortunate fact is that many other people still cared about it, and the kitchen would be my first dose of it that day. And not the last, either.


	7. Part One: My Country and my Family

My Country and My Family

News in the Middle East always circulated around us rural townfolk pretty quick. I'm not sure if it was because our town was mostly Conservative or if it was just because we never had anything else to talk about. Cityfolk got all kinds of things to talk about, especially around their town, but we ain't got much more to shoot the shit about than some local gossip and whatever the big news story of the day is.

I'll admit I have as much of a penchant for gossip as the next guy, but war talk disinterested me. It had disinterested me for five years. But everyone else seemed to relish it, like it was the highlight of their day to hear about some other Humvee getting blown up and killing three or four more of our guys, and they'd shake their heads and say it was a damn shame and they'd wonder how much longer we'd have to be over there, only to balk and cry whenever anyone suggested that we should pull out. It was a tidy little paradox, let me tell you.

But let's get back to me. Here's another small tidbit for you to remember: I'm inherently narcissistic, and I enjoy talking about me.

By now, I expected to hear at least vague noises indicative of my family being up and moving around. My sister would probably be blasting some lame boy band's newest album and singing along to lyrics that made me roll my eyes into the back of my eye sockets. The shower in my parent's room would probably be going, and either my dad or my mom would be talking to whichever one of them was using the shower at the moment, loudly, about whatever came to mind. Loud was how my family was, which is exactly how I was not.

Instead, I heard silence, which was a bit unnerving for me. Loud meant everything was normal; silence meant at least one of them was in a bad mood.

I decided to head towards the kitchen to make my aforementioned coffee and some cereal, and the closer I got, I could already smell the coffee wafting through the house. Every step down the stairs brought a stronger scent of it until I was just outside the kitchen, and then it was punching me in the face. It smelled excellent; something dark, Colombian maybe. Tweek's bizarre family had given me a taste for coffee at a young age, and I appreciated that my family preferred strong brewed coffee to instant. Luckily, it was one of the few food items my family usually had in excess.

I expected to see my mother inside, probably doing dishes from dinner last night or something, but it was my father. This was sort of a surprise, and potentially an unpleasant one. My dad was grumpy in the morning, and I was grumpy in the morning, and both of us being grumpy at each other usually resulted in some kind of unnecessary argument.

But he seemed preoccupied today. He had his cup of coffee sitting next to him while he leaned on the counter, (hunched over; the counter was built for normal people like my mother, not tall ass folks) and he stared out the window at the snow, which was still gently falling. I could see it had piled up on the sill and made some nice crystals on the glass.

Being courteous before I intruded upon his quiet time and his coffee, I greeted him. "Mornin' dad."

"Mornin' Craig," he greeted distantly.

I took this as permission to help myself to the coffee pot, (my parents were weird; sometimes they said I could have it, sometimes I couldn't. I think it depended on how late in the month it was and how short we were on food stamps) and I did so, pouring some into the biggest mug I could find and then pouring vanilla creamer into it. No sugar, though; the creamer was sweetened and that was just enough for me.

"Fuckin' buttfuck cold out there," my dad said by means of starting a conversation. It was not uncommon for my family to use two or more variants of 'fuck' in the same sentence. Tucker vocabulary was concise and to the point. "Went out to get the paper and damn near froze my fuckin' balls off."

"Maybe you shouldn't go outside in your bathrobe000 and slippers when it's snowing," I replied. This probably came off as a smart ass remark, but I meant it pretty seriously. One thing you'll notice about me is that I'm a very literal person. I earned the nickname "Captain Obvious" very early in my life.

"Maybe," he said, but it took him a while for the perceived snark to catch up with him; he was obviously a little lost in thought today. "And you watch yer mouth; I don't need yer sass today."

"Yessir," I said sincerely. I was used to being scolded for perceived smart-assery; it didn't particularly bother me what other people thought I "meant." It didn't matter what you meant; it's what you said. That's what I thought. I knew what I meant; that's what mattered.

While I moved around collecting what I needed for a delicious, nutritious breakfast of Reese's Puffs, my dad eventually sighed and headed to the table. The paper was already open; I'd caught a glimpse or two of the headlines. More shit about the Middle East, which I didn't particularly care about. I'd been eleven years old when shit went down in New York and I assure you: I was just as much of a careless shithead at eleven as I was at sixteen. The Middle East was thousands of miles away and it had nothing to do with me. Then, I didn't really care about the war; not really. Not like I would.

I took my bowl of Reese's Puffs and my coffee to the table and sat across from him, and while he spread out the paper I began cramming cereal into my mouth. Reese's Puffs were about the only cereal I would eat; that and Peanut Butter Captain Crunch. Ruby preferred fruity cereal like Trix and Froot Loops, and I never touched those. Other than that, choices were pretty limited; Cheerios, Mini Wheats, Raisin Bran. Adult bullshit.

Unfortunately, we went through cereal very fast; I used bowls that were probably three servings of what the box said I should eat, and Ruby brought handfuls of cereal to school for snacking. The beginning of the month, when the food stamps refreshed, was when I got cereal and coffee, and that was usually a good breakfast for me.

My father didn't have any food; just coffee. So I crunched my cereal in silence for a bit until he spoke up.

"They're saying this month, this year has been the deadliest for U.S. Troops. More kills in Iraq in October than any other month. Three more Marines killed on top of the nine last week, and bombings going off and killing their own fuckin' people. And the U.K thinks everyone should pull out, just as it's getting bad! What kind of fuckin' bullshit is that?"

I munched cereal and listened to him talk. I didn't mind it so much. It never bothered me listening to other people talk, and that was something I think people underestimated from me. I probably always looked like I didn't care, but I did. I enjoyed listening. You could learn a lot about a lot of people just by listening to them talk.

"And this is on top of fuckin' North Korea and Iran doing nuclear testing and all kinds of shit behind closed doors. North Korea's actually testing their nukes now; they're trying to see how far they can actually get a bird in the air. And why the hell would they care about distance? Their two main enemies are right next door and then their only other competition is us, so why else would they need fuckin' distance?"

I gathered that I was supposed to be concerned or at least somewhat perturbed by this development, so I scrunched my face into what I hoped looked like concern mixed with worry. I was not a master of creating facial expressions, only hiding them. Wooden planks typically had more expression than I did. "I don't know," I said earnestly. "How come?"

"Weren't you listening?" he answered impatiently. "North Korea's only got eyes on Japan and us, and they don't need distance for Japan."

"Oh." The implication being, of course, that North Korea wanted long distance nuclear weapons for America. I didn't know how true that was, or even what our status was with North Korea at the time. Knowing nothing and caring about nothing, I thought it was kind of egocentric for us to really worry about a country that, from what I understood at the time, was scarcely better than third world based on the conditions their people lived in. Especially considering how the last country that challenged us to a dick off wound up getting fucked by a few hundred thousand soldiers.

But it was obvious that I should show some sort of discontent with this. "That's no good," was my assessment of the whole thing.

"And Iran is fingerprintin' Americans now, they're saying they ain't got a problem with Americans but only the American government, and they wanna keep tabs of everyone who goes over there. And they got the balls to say that when their own government is as fucked up as it is?" He sighed and grumbled and flipped through the pages to find the Sports section.

That's how it was; every day you'd go through the newspaper and see how awful the state of the world was at the moment and how terrible everything was and how doomed we all were, and then you'd settle down all of your stirred up worries with sports and comics. That was how we all just kept floating by, back then. Still, at least my father cared enough to even do that. I didn't care at all, and it apparently showed on my face.

"Not that you ever stopped to care or gave a shit about what was going on in the country," he told me, bluntly. He didn't mean anything by it, not like in a demeaning, vengeful kinda way. That's just how my family was: say it like it is, don't prance around the facts. You wonder why I turned out the way I did.

Notwithstanding the anticipated affront to my demeanor, I didn't really have the heart to tell him that, no, I didn't really care, and while I preferred honesty, I was sometimes kind enough to lie. "Sure I care," I said. "It's my country; why wouldn't I care?"

This was always good response for him and it usually settled whatever little irritations he had with me for the day. He clapped me on the shoulder and stood up to get more coffee.

There are three things you should know about my family.

Number one, we are all redneck hicks, and it goes back generations. Most people say their family has a little Dutch (like Clyde) or a little Polish (like Kyle Broflovski) or a little Irish (like Kenny) in their family history, and it might be as recent as their mom or dad having immigrated to the States. That was one of the glorious things about the country: it was a giant melting pot, and everyone was everything.

Not my family. They were all good ol' boys, all American down and down, to the bone; might have even been among some of the first settlers way back when. They'd settled into the Midwest years and years ago and had never looked back since.

Number two, I loved my family a lot, and it's important to realize that I use the word "love" because I don't use it very often. Normally just for guinea pigs, solitude, and Reese's Puffs.

You might have inferred from some of my interaction (or description of interaction) that I don't like my family, and that's not true. We didn't get along sometimes and we had spats and we didn't like a lot of things about each other, but we loved each other in a kind of backwards, hate-filled way. It's difficult to explain if you've never had the type of family I had, but I just want to assure you that none of my problems came from me having a bad family. We were dysfunctional, maybe, but that was it, and I dare you to show me a family in this country who isn't dysfunctional.

Number three, my father was not my father.

My mother pushed me out in January of 1990, and it was into wedlock she pushed me. My real father had knocked her up while they were both in college, and he had plans. She wanted to go back home and quit school; he didn't. He said he would marry her one day, but they knew better. In the middle of Hicksville, Colorado where there was one or two black families to speak of and only a handful of Hispanics, the interracial thing might not go down so well.

See, my dad was Peruvian. Shocker; I know. How else could a blond, fair-skinned woman and a man with carrot orange hair and pale ass vampire skin produce a black-haired, olive-skinned child?

Well, olive-skinned was probably kind of generous. My skin tone was darker than either of my parents but no where near what you'd call "Latino." I marked "White/Caucasian" on my standardized testing in high school because that's what I considered myself and, basically, that's how I looked. I was light enough to pass for white as long as I hadn't had too much sun, which wasn't too hard to avoid in the Colorado Rockies.

But it was a huge fuckin' difference in family photos, surrounded by blond and red-haired folks with skin that was either pasty white or sun-burned red, and there I was: a dark-haired tanned motherfucker in a back woods mountain town.

I was not secretive about this; just quiet. I didn't often tell people. My best friends knew, and Kenny knew. Bit of an accident I'd told him; one of the few times I'd just blurted it out. Other people? No, not necessary. Not relevant.

As for knowing or ever meeting my biological father, fuck him. I never did meet him and as far as I'm concerned, Tom Tucker was and still is my real father, and I've never told him any different since he started raising me as his own at the fresh age of one year and four months old. And if anyone else in town looks at my mom and looks at my dad and wonders where I fit in, they have been polite enough (and wise enough) not to say it to my face.

This is all information. Relevance. You might think I'm just being narcissistic again by sharing all of this with you, but I promise, I do it because it matters.

"I'm gonna go get ready for work," my dad finally said. He'd drained the last of his coffee and left the cup sitting on the counter, next to the pot, where he would inevitably come back for it before the morning was up.

"Okay," I said. I was scrapping up the last couple little puffs from my bowl and didn't really notice him.  
>"Have a good day at school, and keep yer fuckin' nose clean. Don't sass yer teachers no more; you got a brand new school year and you should start learnin' a little brown-nosin."<p>

He'd already gotten phone calls at least three times for my "sass." I was still working out which teachers needed me to string sugar through my teeth and which ones could handle my natural bluntness.

"I'll try," I said.

When he left, I dumped the remaining drops of chocolate peanut-butter milk into my coffee and then finished swigging that down. Then, before my mom could enter and ruin the scene, I stole more coffee out of the coffee pot, and more vanilla creamer besides.

I wound up mimicking my dad as he had done earlier that morning, leaning on the counter beside my steaming coffee cup and staring at the snow.

It had been a grand five months since I'd seen snow, (we'd had a late winter, which was not unusual in the Rockies) but every time I saw it, I was always weirdly happy to see it come back. It was like losing a friend for a few months and then seeing them come home again.

Within weeks, maybe days, I would hate the snow and curse it and wish that I could have that brief summer heat back, and later, as stated, I would move to California so that summer would never have to end. But I think I was mountain bred through and through, even if half of me was from the Andes like Spot rather than the Rockies like Tom Tucker, and watching snow, new snow especially, had a distant calming effect on me. It lapsed me into a sort of serenity that I couldn't often achieve, and, as I did not often do without good reason, it made me smile.

I feel very sorry for those of you who've never had the blessing of watching winter giving birth to its first snow, because it's very beautiful. The proceeding winter is often very cold and long and hard, not unlike childhood itself, but it is beautiful. Callous though I was, I could still appreciate beauty. I'd like you to remember that too.

I heard the footsteps long before they actually arrived in the kitchen, and all too soon, my mother entered. She already looked ready to go; her hair was up, her face was done, and she was dressed to kill.

As I often did, if just to placate her before she found something to harp on me about, I complimented her. "You look nice today, Ma."

"Thanks sweetie," she said, and with me hunched over and hiding my face from her, she wound up just kissing my temple; her painted lips felt weird against my scalp. "And pick up after yourself; I didn't raise you to be a slob," she added, a little bit more sharply.

"Yes, ma'am," I answered smartly, and I thought back to the bathroom and wondered whose undergarments had been strewn about, if not hers. Ruby was twelve, and while I didn't often check, I was pretty sure she didn't wear a bra yet. Not one THAT fancy, anyway.

Nonetheless, I returned to the kitchen table where my spoon and cereal bowl sat innocuously on the surface beside the newspaper and its screaming headlines.

It was 2006, five years after 9/11, and the end of October. I had just entered my Junior year of high school. I was sixteen, to be seventeen in January, and as most teenagers did and still do, I knew everything.


	8. Part One: Crepes and Lingonberries

Crepes and Lingonberries

When I sit down and try and think and puzzle to myself, I find it difficult to explain how I felt about the war back then, before I cared. It's difficult to explain how I feel about war in general, even now, but trying to break back into that mindset of utmost indifference is a little exhausting for me. The sheer amount of arrogance I managed to carry with me through that time is almost astonishing to me now, that thick-skinned callosity almost embarrassing.

Then again, I also went through a period of being extremist for the other side, and the memories for that are not so good either. It is a fickle thing to care too much for something and to not care enough. That, I think, was one of the more lasting impressions I got from Kenny.

The thing was, war was a very unpleasant background noise to me, and I preferred to ignore it when possible, which wasn't easy in my town. Most everyone had some relative that had been a service member or was currently serving, and thus it made for a very positive, thriving atmosphere for conservatives, gung-ho militant folk, as well as rednecks who just liked guns. Seeing as I was none of these things, I preferred to observe, casually, but never get involved.

My opinions on it were minimal and mostly formed on a cynical unwillingness to believe zealous politicians and fluffed up news reports, as well as a general disinterest in things that did not directly concern me. Almost the entirety of what I thought about the war up until this point will be laid out for you in just this chapter, and the rest, for me, was blissfully blank, and don't worry; for that reason, you won't see me bring it up much for a while after this. 

Kenny wouldn't be there to fill in the blanks for quite a long time, but for now I'll take a very small break from it all to share with you a very brief conversation with a friend of mine.

It all started over crepes.

The weather did not improve throughout the morning, and when I shrugged on my winter coat and headed out the door, the first snow had started to lose some of its magic to me. I had woken up cold and had found a little solace in a hot shower and some coffee, but at the end of the morning, I was still cold. Not the best way to start the morning.

It was a blustery Thursday in October, just over a month after the school year had begun. Most places in the country would still see reasonable weather around this time, maybe even pleasant weather. But this was a small mountain town dead set in the Colorado Rockies, and South Park basically had two seasons: Winter and Almost Winter.

I sat next to one of my best friends, Token, on the doorstep of what was basically a mansion considering the state of most houses 'round these parts. Token's family had money, you see, and don't let that go to your head; he didn't let it get to his.

Most families in South Park ran middle to lower class, and several were on welfare, mine included. You already know what my ideal breakfast was: coffee and Reese's Puffs. Maybe some orange juice if I was feeling frisky. Sometimes the folks would mix up some Hungry Jack and fry a shit load of bacon and that was a feast for us.

Token's family did things a little differently.

"They're Swedish crepes," he explained, holding out a Tupperware container with the intent of passing it off to me. "With lingonberry sauce. Try it; it's good."

"What exactly are crepes, and what exactly are lingonberries?" I asked as I tentatively took the offering. My pallet was limited, and the fanciest I got was a slab of New York strip on the grill now and then. That and whatever Token occasionally proffered from his home magically unaffected by South Park blanket poverty.

"Well, crepes are like really thin pancakes folded over, and lingonberries are kind of like cranberries," he explained. He did it patiently, like his knowing this didn't make him any better than me, and I always appreciated this about Token. He never came off like he was better than anyone, even if by all accounts, he was.

"So this is like, a European thing?"

"Sort of." He watched me open the container and sniff suspiciously at the contents, but he didn't smile or do anything else that would rub me the wrong way. He just appreciatively watched the snow.

Let me tell you, I hate cheeky little smiles. When people look like they know a secret you aren't in on. Cocky little smirks and secretive little grins. They just set me off like nothing else.

Again, I don't mean to insult you, but I encourage you to remember this.

The crepes didn't actually look that bad. They were sort of flat, almost deflated, but they smelled good and they were covered in a reddish sauce that smelled good. They had powdered sugar on top, too, and they were still just slightly steaming.

There was a plastic fork inside, and I picked it up and shoveled a bit into my mouth. It was weird, really light but sweet, and the sauce was tart, but it was good.

"I like it," I said. And I continued eating.

"That's cool," Token said. He was unscrewing the cap on a thermos, and he took a tiny swig of it. "Peppermint hot chocolate," he said by way of explanation. "Want some?"

"No thanks." I was not a big fan of sweet food, and that was partly why my favorite breakfast cereals were peanut-butter flavored; peanut-butter was not sweet. The crepe basically just teetered on my limit.

"Alright."

I ate crepes and Token drank hot chocolate and we watched the snow fall, both us and the snow silent.

I apologize for my repeated interjections; I promise I'll try to trim them down a bit from now on. But I find it relevant to inform you that silence between friends was not bad. Maybe it was for my family, but it was different for friends. Token and I were good friends; we had been a long time. So silence for us was a language all on its own. This is especially important to remember for some of my other friends later.

The crepes were good, but it was the berries I liked. They were kind of like cranberries, but not. I don't know how to describe them, because I haven't had them in a decade or two, but they were real good, really unique, probably the most interesting berry I'd ever had. They hadn't been over sweetened and their tartness bit my tongue, and I licked every smear of it, using the fork to scrape up what I could when the bulk of it was gone.

"Thanks man," I eventually told him when the plastic had been as good as licked clean. "That stuff's tasty as fuck, whatever it is."

"Yeah, I know. I think they're my favorite berry." He could have left me there for a few minutes to return the Tupperware to his kitchen, but he just pulled off his backpack and shoved it into the largest pocket instead. Then he finished zipping it up and he tossed it over his shoulder, and that was that. He held his thermos in both hands and we stared off into the snow.

We would be waiting at least a few more minutes for our ride to pull up at the gate. Clyde often ran a little late, though we usually still got to school on time regardless.

"See the paper this morning?" he eventually asked. He didn't tend to be any more politically inclined than I was; I figured he was just making polite conversation.

"Yep," I said. And that was all.

"My grandad was a Marine," he explained, though I hadn't asked. "It's just...there's been a lot of Marines getting killed lately."

"There's been a lot of everything getting killed lately," I pointed out, insensitively I suppose, but that was how I was. "Not just Marines. That's what happens in a war."

"That's true," Token said thoughtfully. Most people might have thought I was being a obtuse asshole, (which I was) but at the same time, I was not wrong, and I think Token was aware of that. People tended to focus on the deaths they cared about, as though some were more important than others. However, Token then gave me new information I had not yet heard of. "You know that bomb that went off in Iraq the other day? Everyone's upset because it killed some of ours, but it killed over three natives. Innocent people caught in the crossfire. I don't think any of that was on the news at all."

"I haven't heard about it." I failed to confess that I hadn't exactly been keeping up lately. I was also prone to being one of those assholes who would point out that there had been 2,977 people killed in the attacks on 9/11, (just the attacks themselves; not those who died of complications after) and while three hundred people was certainly a tragedy, it was a pittance compared to what had brought us there to begin with, besides the fact that it was a bomb the Iraqis had set off themselves.

Of course, that would have been a pretty ignorant statement to make, considering that by the "end" of the war on terror (does anyone even really know when it officially "ended?") there had been over 600,000 Middle Eastern casualties. But back then, I had no idea how many locals had died as a result of the war, and why should I? I didn't care.

However, before I could continue displaying my usual boorish behavior, Token continued. "Like I said: I don't think a lot of people have heard about it, just about how our guys died. And that's kinda scary, you know? Like all these people are dying and no one is caring. I've been noticing it a lot; most of the usual news stations don't report all the numbers."

"We're in a war," I repeated. "Major news is going to report the war from our angle. What did you think was gonna happen?"

"I figured the media would cover the war. It's history in the making. We're watching future history books in live action and we're looking at it through tunnel vision."

I rolled my eyes and sighed. Token was very smart, very nearly a straight-A student, and he was compassionate. Compassion often clouded judgment. I didn't blame him for this; my lack of compassion only meant that I was judgmental to the point of being an asshole. "Token, you know I love getting to the bottom of things myself, but you've gotta keep a foot in reality man. The thing is that all of this shit over Iraq and Afghanistan or whatever, Fox reports one thing and CNN reports another. We don't care about the fluffing but that's all they give us; we're worried about the factual information, and we'll probably never get it. There's no facts in war because history is written by the victors, remember? How do you know the whole three hundred Iraqis dying thing wasn't just a rumor to make people who are easily influenced think Al Qaeda is ruthless and evil? Or do you really think there's a plot to hide Iraqi deaths while buffing our own?"

"Are you suggesting there's some sort of conspiracy or something?" He was looking at me, sort of surprised, which was pretty reasonable of him. I'd gone off on a bit of a tangent, which was unusual for me, but then again, he'd kept pushing me, and when I was pushed, I barked.

"If you believe that shit, you aren't easily influenced; you're stupid," I spat.

The momentary astonishment fell from his face, and then he just chuckled. "Don't let Tweek hear you say that."

"Conspiracies are stupid, yeah. But the other stuff? No one really knows anything about it. It's all secondhand, it's all been processed and filtered one way or another. We all pretend we're all diligently keeping tabs on the war and we're all very certain that Al Qaeda is bad, very bad, but not a goddamned one of us knows why or how."

"But they are bad," Token reasoned. "Aren't they?"

"How the fuck should I know? I don't know what they do or what they stand for or why we need to eradicate them. All anyone tells me is that they're bad because they killed Americans and they need to die. How the hell is anyone supposed to reason with that?"

"I get what you mean," Token replied patiently. "I don't know exactly what their agenda is either, to be honest. But if they aren't bad, then what the hell are we over there for?"

"I don't fuckin' know, you tell me. I don't really give a shit, and I try to keep it that way."

"I don't blame you," he said. He was packing up his thermos; we'd heard the car approaching in the long, parabolic driveway that led to his gate, and we knew that any moment now, Clyde would be parked outside, obnoxiously honking until we reached him. "Keeping up with everything is difficult. Sometimes it seems like it's not worth it, like we really should just pull out, you know?"

"No, I don't know," I said. "I don't know if we should be over there or not. I don't know anything about anything going on over there. So I refuse to have an opinion on it. It wouldn't change anything, anyway."

Ah, my safety net. You'll soon learn that I was a very proud person, very prone to being right all the time even when I wasn't, and feigning disinterest and apathy was the easiest way to maintain my perfect record. You see, if I didn't care, I was never wrong, and thus I never had any reason to doubt myself.

I feel like I'm being a little too harsh on my younger self a little too early in the game. I'm not giving you a fair chance to hate me on your own. While I want you to understand that I am perfectly aware of what a total shithead I was, I don't think I want you to be reveling in it before we've even gotten to the good parts. And trust me, there's a lot of good parts. My daring escape through the park and the ten minute apocalypse and the explosion from the Denver rooftop and the final drive in the Broncos' Cadillac. Maybe some romance here and there. Nothing special. But while I admit I'm not the most auspicious narrator, I guess I am being a little overbearing.

Speaking of overbearing, Clyde had successfully pulled up to the gate, and right away, he began pounding the horn, refusing to let up. The quiet stillness of the freshly snowed-upon morning was shattered with an incredibly obnoxious car horn belonging to an incredibly obnoxious friend of ours.

"Wonder who that could be?" Token said with a smooth grin.

"Who indeed?" I replied. We both got to our feet and steadily made our way down the lane that lead to the gate. We were in no hurry, and our minor dispute was not enough to distance us. Neither of was mad at each other; that's just how we were.

Outside the gate, the dingy white Cadillac was a blatant sore spot surrounded by the fresh white snow, but it waited patiently for us. Clyde, however, the force driving it, had rolled down the passenger side window to yell at us.

"Come on guys!" he urged. "I want breakfast! We can still make it!"

Token and I exchanged tired looks and picked up the pace a significantly, like we were bank robbers diving at a gettaway car. The Broncos' Cadillac waited long enough for us to get in and shut the doors, but as Clyde peeled away, leaving tire marks on the only stately driveway in town, we felt like maybe we had only just made it and just barely managed to escape the coppers. Clyde was dramatic like that, as you will find out shortly.


	9. Part One: The Broncos' Cadillac

The Broncos' Cadillac

When you live in a one horse town like South Park, it basically became a one car town too. Usually your family had one car. If you were lucky, one of your friends had a car you could all ride in. People rarely bothered getting their licenses until they were 18 or so, and even then a lot of adults wouldn't bother getting licenses because they'd be too drunk to drive anyway.

South Park was progressive in many ways; we all had smart phones and computers and satellite television, but it was a remote little redneck town in the middle of nowhere, and some things never change.

In my group of friends, you'd think Token would have the car. He did, a pretty nice Porsche as it was, but somehow we all kept driving with Clyde. Maybe it was his impeccable timing or his admirable driving ability.

That was a joke. My sarcasm is difficult enough to decipher in conversation; I didn't realize it would be quite so cryptic when written. I'll try to keep that in mind.

Clyde was sixteen long before the rest of us, and I'll explain why later. Sorry; it's not really relevant right now. I'll write you a rain check. Tweek would come next, but if you met him, you wouldn't expect him to exactly be the type to drive. I'll explain this later too.

It just so happened though that Clyde WAS the type to drive, and it just so happened that Clyde had The Car.

It was The Car, exactly that, and it was the most important car we knew. It was a 1997 Cadillac DeVille; the Broncos' Cadillac.

In 1997, when Clyde was 8 years old, the Denver Broncos went to the Super Bowl, their first since '89. They had never won a Super Bowl in about fifty years of playing the league, and all of Colorado was holding its breath.

Clyde's dad bet his family's entire life savings that the Broncos would win. His mother was hysterical and Clyde says that he remembers a lot of fighting during that time, but the Broncos came through for Mr. Donovan, and he wound up with quite a lot of money.

Clyde never knew exactly how much; he said his dad said it was a couple o' feathers off of the golden goose's tit and that he should stop being nosy in his family's financial affairs.

You see, most families in a greenhorn town had their own unique colloquialisms; not just us Tuckers.

That next week, Mr. Donovan put a few of those tit feathers down on what was then a brand new Cadillac DeVille. All white, shining rims; it was a beauty during its time. He put a giant ass Broncos logo up in the rear windshield and had a specialized license plate made, GO BRNCS. It was a 1997: the year of the Denver Broncos, bought with the winnings of a long odds Super Bowl.

Nine years and about 100,000 miles later, he'd given it to Clyde.

Clyde always acted like it wasn't that big a deal, like he was kind of embarrassed of it really. But privately, I knew that Clyde really liked that car, and I hoped he would have some great memories in it. I hoped he would go on road trips with his boys and dates with his girls and maybe get some tongue or cop a feel in front of Stark's Pond, where all the stupid kids like him went to turn in their V card.

He may have done all of those things; he may have done none of those things. All I know was that in late 2009, The Car would be totaled in an accident that would take the lives of two men.

I know I've said I hate mystery, but just give me a chance to explain first. There's a lot of other relevant information I need to get out of the way before I get involved in all that.

Right now, it's still 2006, and my friends and I are driving to Park County High School, which was actually in North Park County. Both towns were far enough apart to be their own towns but small enough to only require one high school, and of course, that meant something of a drive for us folks who lived out in the middle of nowhere.

It hardly needs to be said, but before I get too lost in detail, I need to stress that The Car is important. Relevant. Remember her.

You'll recall that when Clyde pulled up, Token and I made haste to the car and jumped in with the urgency of two red-handed bank robbers. Inside were the other two staples to our group and partners in crime, Clyde and Tweek, with Clyde in the driver's seat and Tweek in the back, where he felt safer. He said you were a lot less likely to die in an accident if you were in the backseat.

As always, Token slipped in the front seat, and I wound up in the back. This arrangement worked for us for several reasons.

Clyde and Token talked a lot and they talked loudly. Tweek did not talk and when he did, it was not loud. As I've mentioned, this is preferable to me.

Clyde and Token always had Pop music blasting from the radio; usually tuned to whatever station claimed it was playing "The Top Ten" whatever. Today it was Daniel Powter's "Bad Day," which would later move on to being Number 1 at the Billboard Top 100 songs for 2006, but even by then I was sick of it; of the repetitiveness and the sickeningly sweet sincerity of it.

Tweek already had earbuds in, and he was bundled up in a hoodie that was probably three sizes too big for him. He looked damn comfortable, to tell you the truth, and that was probably for the best. As previously mentioned, Tweek did not particularly like driving, and that included being in a moving vehicle period.

This was the other reason I sat in the back with him; Tweek was sometimes not very calm, and I was almost always excruciatingly calm.

"Whattaya got for me?" I asked him.

"Sandstorm," he replied. "Da-Darude." And he offered me a bud, which I gladly put in my ear.

The iPhone would not be released until 2007, which would then begin my lifelong love of Apple products, (much to my welfare family's chagrin) but for now, all I had was a shitty CD player that was too bulky for me to carry to school. Tweek had an iPod nano and iTunes, and he listened to music I could at least tolerate. Benny Benassi. Daft Punk. Mostly techno, (he would cringe if you called it that; "It's electronica," he would say. "It's Dance and House and EDM. Not everything synthesized is techno!") and I was fine with that. It was better than singing a sad song just to turn it around.

"You look cheerful," he commented.

Let me give you a bit of description as to what I normally looked like.

"..."

That's about it.

As previously stated, I was not a master of facial expressions. Even neutrality normally resulted in me looking slightly pissed off or angry about something, which normally resulted in people trying very hard not to bother me. To be perfectly frank, I liked this, so I never tried very hard to change this.

So when someone like Tweek, whom I spoke with every day, says "You look cheerful," it means "You look slightly less pissed off than you normally do."

"Do I?" I said, because it was always sort of a surprise hearing about what kind of face I was making at any given time. I didn't put a lot of thought into it. "Well, it's been a good morning for me I guess."

"That's cool." He shivered in his giant hoodie and sunk down deeper into the seat. Sandstorm had ended and a remix of Andain's "Beautiful Things" slowly beat its way into our ears, and as if mocking it, James Blunt's "You're Beautiful" began crooning from the front.

Men seemed to be getting whiny and romantic in the Top Ten these days. Maybe that was what chicks wanted in the turn of the century; we'd moved on from the punk and grunge and macho men of the 80's and 90's and the new millennium was all about touchy feely shit. It wasn't what I wanted, that's for sure.

Hint, hint.

"No coffee today?" I asked. Tweek's parents ran a local coffee shop, and it was a rare morning that the kid didn't have an extra large coffee of some sort nestled in his hands.

"Drank it all before Clyde managed to pick me up." He rolled his eyes at me. "He s-said he'd had to scrape ice off the windshield," he added, a little sardonically.

I concurred, "Nope, I don't buy it either."

A sudden base drop caused him to violently twitch, but then he slowly relaxed back into the music again. Don't be concerned; twitching was as normal as blinking for this kid. I wasn't sure if it was some form of Tourette's or just a symptom of his chronic social anxiety, but it was normal. Being addicted to coffee probably didn't help that fact, and neither did his questionable ADHD, but he didn't like people bringing it up. I'd tried. It wasn't worth bringing up anymore; the kid was aggressively in denial.

It's notable that I have a tendency to refer to Tweek as "kid." This was partly due to the fact that he seemed a lot younger than the rest of us, (Clyde and Token were roughly the same height, probably around 5'9" or so, but at sixteen years old Tweek was a comparably miniscule 5'5", which I attributed to his coffee addiction. He would eventually sprout up a few more inches in the next few years, but not much) and he also just outwardly seemed to be like the type of person you'd expect couldn't take care of himself.

First of all, he was the second oldest out of us. He only beat me out by two months, but it's worth noting, and if not for Clyde's unique situation he might have been the oldest period.

Secondly, Tweek was more than capable of taking care of himself, and don't mistake for a second that his meek demeanor matched his true self. People always mistook him for weak, and I assure you he was not.

But more on that later. It's hard to really defend a guy's honor when at the moment he was still twitching every time we hit a bump and he appeared to be anticipating death any moment. When Tweek's on edge, he's not quite himself. Assume all you want about me, but take this Tweek with a grain of salt for now, and save yourself for the other Tweek that you'll find popping in and out of the story, because he'll surprise you. He sure as fuck surprised me.

"Stop freaking out," I told him.

He responded with a choked sort of squeal in his throat. They were never actual words, so it's kind of hard to transcribe them. They would sort of sound like a little "ngh" or "hng." The closest these little squeaks ever got to a real word might have been "gah," but I didn't think he was actually trying to make words. They were just nervous tics, irrational, uncontrollable.

"Yes, you're freaking out," I said firmly, before he could properly deny it. "Relax. It's just like any other day. Nothing is going to happen."

"It's snowing," he said gruffly; sometimes, the way he spoke, it was almost like someone had their hand wrapped around his throat.

"Yeah, Tweek, it tends to do that in the mountains during winter." Sometimes I didn't say things just because they were obvious. I had an inherent tendency to lean towards sarcasm. I couldn't help it.

"Most accidents in winter happen right when the snow is fresh," he was murmuring fervently. "And there's black ice and it was raining before it turned to snow and all the oil on the road is gonna be slick-"

"Nothing will happen."

"But what if it does?"

"It won't." I said it as though that simply ended the conversation, just like that. Benassi's "Rocket in the Sky" had started coming in strong, and while I wasn't exactly as big a fan of "house" and "EDM" as Tweek, I particularly liked that song. I wanted him to be calm so I could listen to it.

Sometimes firm irrationality was the best antidote to his chaotic irrationality, and this time, it worked. He settled very far into the seat and closed his eyes and he probably pretended he wasn't even in a car; just in a rocket ship floating in space somewhere, and he was calm for the rest of the ride.

In the front, the Top Ten had temporarily withdrawn in favor of a commercial break, and Clyde and Token were starting to chat. Tweek and I often had the option to exclude ourselves from their talks entirely, (which was very nice; not all people understood that not everyone in a group wants to be involved) but as the rockets started fading, I began picking up on their conversation.

"My dad says we're going to be focusing on Iran next," Clyde was telling Token. I shouldn't have been surprised to hear that the war was, yet again, the topic of the day. It's just that luckily enough, I didn't have to contribute to it this time.

"My dad's saying Syria," Token replied. "He says if we were going to fuck with Iran at all, we would have done it in '91 in Desert Storm."

Ah, Desert Storm. I was but an infant when all of that was going on, and there's still a lot I could say about _that_. I think it was George Bush Sr.'s call for a "new world order" after that whole mess that would later allow and inspire George Bush Jr.'s eventual declaration of the "war on terror." But that's all just a little more I can bear right now, and besides, that's not what this story is about.

"I'm thinking Africa," Clyde said, almost casually.

"Africa?" Token repeated, a little incredulously. "Why Africa?"

"Oh, you know, all those pirates and stuff. Mogadishu is the most dangerous city in the world right now, man, did you know that?"

"No," said Token, nonplussed. "Where's Mogadishu?"

"Somalia. They've actually got all these pirates and stuff."

I should note that the whole Somalian pirate thing didn't really start picking up speed (and international criticism) until around 2009, so it was actually very astute of Clyde to pick up on it this early. In 2006, especially for a couple of air headed teenagers in a podunk mountain town, Somalia may as well have been on another planet.

"We're not going to switch from terrorists to pirates," Token said impatiently. "Not unless a pirate targets an American ship or something, and we don't exactly have a bunch of naval fleets going up and down the coast of Africa."

"They don't have to target an American ship, just an American _allied_ ship," Clyde explained. "Every time there's some international incident, what do we do? We go stick our nose in it because we feel some kind of _moral_ obligation or something to be included in everything. Every time some other country has a dispute or something, we always get involved. So if these Somalian pirates target an ally, and they go to war, then WE go to war with Somalia in the name of that ally. See?"

"I really don't think so," Token demurred. "At any other time, maybe, but we're stretched to the limit in the Middle East as it is now. I can't even see us going beyond Iraq and Afghanistan at this point. Besides, hijacking ships isn't exactly the same as invading other countries and blowing up shit with planes." There it was again, that fine line double standard.

"I'm just saying, if in a year or two they start talking about starting shit with Somalia, Clyde Donovan told you first."

I wish I could say Clyde gleefully informed us "I told you so!" in late 2009 when the Somalian pirates started attacking allied ships and then, of course, the _Maersk Alabama_ hijacking, which of course spurred plenty of outrage in the States because the piracy had finally affected America. There was, in fact, talk of deploying troops to Africa, but by then Clyde was in Texas, and by then I was fighting a war of my own, not in Somalia but in downtown Denver. Things always seem to progress in the most unexpected fashion sometimes, don't they?

"That reminds me, the Broncos' game the other night-"

And I tuned out again; the Sub Focus remix coming from the earbuds was a lot more appealing than another round of sports talk I could hardly keep up with.

"Can you turn this up?" I asked Tweek.

He nodded and tapped the volume until it almost hurt my ears. The Cadillac continued, unperturbed by any of it.


	10. Part One: Brush with Destiny

Brush with Destiny

While I have promised to stop interjecting, I feel the need to add a small note to the beginning of this chapter.

I don't believe in destiny.

I think it's both tragically dramatic and utterly depressing to think that every step of our lives is planned out in perfect detail; that every last thing that happens, good and bad, was meant to happen. I especially hate the idea that people are part of your destiny, as though you have no choice and no decision about who you hate and love, or when they enter and leave your life.

However, you will realize again and again throughout this story that I am something of a hypocrite, and an outstanding example of one to boot. Kenny, I think, was destiny. Maybe just a little bit.

Anyway, when we arrived and Clyde found a parking spot in the student's lot, (becoming Juniors had given us a nicer selection, and he had a little sticker to prove it) we all piled out of the the car at once.

Since the sidewalk that lead from the parking lot to the school itself could only fit two, Clyde and Token took forefront, and Tweek and I dawdled behind, still sharing an earbud between us. We often did this; we didn't like to be bothered, and the easiest way to stop people from bothering to you was to listen to music.

As such, we mostly kept to ourselves, even amongst group conversation, but Clyde was complaining, loudly, about possibly missing breakfast, and he was urging us to step it out and get to the cafeteria before it closed. Tweek and I didn't like being rushed, and they were kind enough not to abandon us merely for being stubborn.

"Man, I should have come earlier," he was saying. "I always do this man, I swear. I don't think I'll need more time because I'm not hungry when I wake up, and then I get here and I'm starving and it's too late to catch breakfast!"

"If you didn't always run late every day," Token said in what was suspiciously close to a scold, "You know, gave yourself more time in the morning..."

"I never think I'll need more time though, that's my problem. And I like sleeping," he whined.

I butted in, and I was unsympathetic. "Well, pick one – sleep or breakfast."

"I want both," he said stubbornly, glancing over his shoulder at me as he spoke.

"Then get up earlier," I suggested bluntly. Easy, simple, obvious.

Clyde whined more. "But it's so hard waking up when it's not even light out yet! How do you guys wake up in the morning?"

Token offered his experience first. "I just set an alarm really early, and I set an extra one in case I fall back asleep."

I went next. "Coffee. Black except for a little creamer. My room's also pretty cold in the morning, so I always want to get up and get in a shower before school too."

We waited for Tweek to chime in, but he only twitched and said, in his strained voice, "I don't usually sleep." None of us were surprised.

"You're all helpless," Clyde lamented, throwing his hands up in the air. "Totally helpless."

As it turned out, we arrived at the cafeteria just as it was closing up, and Clyde was inconsolable. Fortunately for us, just as we turned around, we ran into Jimmy.

Jimmy I haven't spoken of very much yet, and while I admit he doesn't play as big a role as some people, he certainly has a role, and he was certainly a good friend of mine, and I certainly recommend that you remember him.

Token was the first to greet him; with Clyde devastated over his missing breakfast and Tweek and I hiding behind the two of them, he seemed to be the only guy for the job. "Hey Jimmy. What are you doing all the way out here? Bell's gonna ring soon, won't you have trouble getting to class?"

Jimmy was handicapped, and he got around on metal crutches that attached at his elbow. He often arrived to school early and waited near his classroom so that he wouldn't have to fight the crowds on the way to his first period.

"Mornin' fellas," he greeted, cheerfully enough. "I was w-waiting for an audience w-with the Vice Principle. I heard there was g-going to be a holiday themed d-d-dance around Christmastime and I wanted to ask if I c-could put on a holiday r-routine. She seemed r-really interested."

Jimmy fancied himself a comedian. He was not a very good one, or at least to my extremely stunted sense of humor he wasn't, but he never gave up on it. Still, it was nice to see someone our age had some kind of aspiration; lord knows the rest of us didn't.

"That sounds cool," Token said, feigning interest. "If you need any help, just ask. Those things are always really boring anyway; I wouldn't mind spicing it up a little."

"S-sure, that's k-kind of you to offer." Then, Jimmy pointed a crutch at the somber looking Clyde. "What's wrong with h-him?"

"Nothing," Token told him.

I piped up this time. "He missed breakfast because he was late to school. He's sulking."

"I'm not sulking," Clyde said sulkily.

"Oh, well, why d-didn't you just s-say so? I can g-get you some food."

Clyde perked up immediately. "Can you?"

"S-sure. I can j-just say that I g-got to school late. They'll let me in f-for sure. You j-just have to c-come with me to put in your number; say you're c-carrying my tray for me."

"Oh man, you're a lifesaver," Clyde enthused. He clapped his hands and he looked like Christmas had come early. "You have no idea! I had such a shitty dinner last night, I could seriously use some chow."

"You guys should g-go ahead to class," Jimmy suggested. He'd already started crutching towards the cafeteria, and Clyde was eagerly following after him. "We'll probably be a l-little late."

"Alright." Token waved goodbye to both of them. "Bye, guys. And Jimmy, maybe you can tell Clyde that he's not always going to get to take advantage of his friend's disadvantages to make up for his tardiness."

"Can do," Jimmy assured him. "I can only pull the p-poor cripple card s-so many times this school y-year." He chuckled, and then he and Clyde disappeared.

"He's right, you guys should head off," Token said, glancing at his watch. "I've still got to go grab my viola and shit."

"Yeah, I guess," I agreed. Tweek, as he had been all morning, remained quiet. "We'll see you at lunch; at least make sure Clyde's not late for _that_."

Token rolled his eyes. "Yeah, tell me about it."

As Token went off his separate way, I sighed and limply let my head fall backward, staring up at the ceiling as I spoke listlessly to Tweek. "Want to head to class early?"

"Not really," Tweek mumbled. He was still hiding in his hoodie, but he looked up at me so that I might better hear him. "Guess we shouldn't skip today, huh?"

"Nah, not today," I concurred. Tweek and I shared the same first period in our Junior year. English. It was only the end of October, but we'd already skipped it a few times. "Later this week, maybe."

Tweek gave a jerky nod, one that almost pulled my bud out of my ear. "Well, let's go I guess."

"Yep. May as well work on getting this day over with."

"Over and done with," Tweek approved wearily.

We had barely been on the move for thirty seconds before we were on the verge of making another run in, and this time, it would not be a pleasant one; not for me, anyway.

Tweek was slightly ahead of me, but I still saw them before he did. I grabbed his arm to stop him, and he twitched all over and released a guttural "guh!" in response. Startling Tweek was not a priority of mine, but then again, neither was running into those guys.

"What?" Tweek asked. He was grinding his teeth and looking very displeased with me. Usually I was the one comforting him from his frights, not the one giving them to him.

"Stan's gang," I told him. "Let's go around."

Tweek gave me an exasperated look. "Oh, come on."

"I don't like them."

"We haven't had a problem with them since like, freshman year. Get over it."

"I don't like them," I said flatly.

Tweek yanked his arm away from me and rubbed the spot I'd been clutching onto. We both looked glanced over at the four boys we'd been about to cross the line of sight of. I'll let you in on the finer points eventually, but all you need to know for now was this: they were all complete assholes. A mean-spirited bunch, always causing trouble, and they'd been the top quarrelsome quartet since elementary school. More than once I'd had issues with each individual member. Stan was argumentative, Kyle was short-tempered, Cartman was a sociopath, and Kenny was a disgusting pervert.

Yeah, _that_ Kenny; the one I've been casually name dropping since the start of the story and have yet to provide an explanation for. It should come as absolutely no surprise to you when I tell you that you are still not getting that explanation. It'll come when I feel like it's relevant.

"They aren't all that b-bad," Tweek tried to reason with me. Me and him had gone on hiatuses sometimes, which resulted in him distancing from the rest of our group, and some of those times he had drifted to Stan's gang as a replacement. "They're k-kinda mean but they aren't innately b-bad people."

"You've said yourself that every one of them is an asshole."

"Not every one and not all the t-time," Tweek said, and then, as a second thought, he added, "But, yeah, generally."

I glanced around to assess my surroundings. They were loitering in the hall that provided the most direct pathway to our class, but there was another route. "Come on," I said, nodding my head in the opposite direction. "We'll get to class that way."

"If you insist," he said. "It wouldn't be a big deal just walking by them. We don't have to s-say anything."

We had remained stationary for too long; just then, Kenny was the one to glance up and notice us. He tilted his head a little to the side, barely a quarter of an inch, like he was curious about us being there.

"Yeah, I insist." I resisted grabbing his arm and I simply turned and left, assuming Tweek would follow me. As expected, he did.

"You have avoidance issues," he told me when he caught up.

Ordinarily, a straightforward statement was one that I approved of wholeheartedly, and I didn't often acknowledge the hypocrisy in them. I often made harsh but true statements about other people while fully aware that the same applied to me just as well. However, narrowly avoiding Stan's brood had reduced my patience, just enough that I was prone to biting back when criticized.

"Out of all the people I know," I said, "I'm not sure you're the one who should be criticizing avoidance issues."

He twitched self-consciously, and his gaze dropped to his feet. "Shut up," he said tiredly. It was as much an admission as it was a reprimand. "Fine, whatever. Let's go."

So finally, the two of us headed off to the English corridor, where unbeknownst to us, we would soon enter the classroom in which a boy would make a very quiet statement. It would not really seem to influence us right away, and its meaning would not materialize for quite some time, but it would, in fact, be responsible for a lot of things, including things that would later not only affect us separately, but us, together.

It would be the beginning of a boy who had too much to say in too short a time. It would be the beginning of what would later become what brought us together and then tore us apart. As I mentioned before, though, it would be one beginning out of many. There are many more beginnings after this, including a beginning for me and Tweek, but you aren't going to see any of that for a while. For now, it's finally time for you to meet Kenny.


	11. Part One: The Boy Who Refused to Stand

The Boy Who Refused to Stand

I have mentioned before that I was not really a "reader," but that I would be in due time. This would mostly be due to Kenny, who had a tendency to read books, over analyze them, and then apply them to his daily life, as though they had been written just for him. That was the beauty of books, he would say, they were versatile and pure. Not one idea was original, and no idea was any more right than the other. The fact that so many different writers from so many parts of the world and from so many time periods had written the same things over and over again confirmed this.

While I was not really one to pick up a book just for the fuck of it, the English language was not something that I struggled with; not like Clyde. I didn't struggle with any of my classes, really. History had already happened and it was simple, concrete fact that only took a little effort to remember, and I was good at that. Math never changed its mind about what 2+2 would equal that day; it would always be 4. Those two things were static and they never changed.

Granted, English was never quite so straightforward as 2+2, but it made sense in an oddly chaotic way. Learning vocabulary and understanding sentence structure was like organizing the messy folders in a filing cabinet, and it appealed to my more meticulous nature. I liked things being just how I wanted them to be.

What I didn't like was that words could be taken so many different ways. I didn't like that some words carried so much more meaning than others. I'd had issues my whole life with not understanding how people perceived my words, thinking I meant things I hadn't said, even though I was just using words in the way they were supposed to be used. I wished more people would stop obsessing over what it was I'd meant and focus on what it was I'd said. So, of course, I blamed other people for being too stupid to catch onto the simplicity of my words rather than my inability to be tactful.

Other than that, I didn't like stories or fiction very much. It was all a lot of nonsense and irrelevant information. I didn't have time to get invested in other worlds and other realities when I had trouble enough managing the one I had to live in every day. Maybe it was because I usually had trouble making emotional connections to the characters, although if I'm honest, I had trouble making emotional connections period.

So this created the sort of paradox that was me, comprehending language with ease and yet struggling over literature.

Nevertheless, I scored high enough on the various standardized tests that the school administered to us that I often found myself in some form of an advanced English course, and so it was my Junior year of high school. I was assigned to English III Honors; in fact, it was my first period that year, and yes, as it happens, this fact is relevant.

English Honors was always a smaller class than most; as you can imagine, the English language was not really a strong suit for a rural Midwest mountain town. Probably the only person in that class I considered of importance to me was Tweek, although it's worth noting that Kenny was also there. But as I've said, he's not really important yet. You'll get a glimpse of him by the end of this chapter, but it'll be a very vague, very fleeting glimpse, and really, you'll think at first that it really doesn't matter. A lot of things don't seem to matter, at first. I beg you to at least keep them in mind anyway.

As for the rest of the class, I knew them all by name and I had gone to school with most of them for most of my life, but none of them are particularly important to the story, so I see no reason to introduce them.

We sat in alphabetical order by column, so Tweek was directly behind me. We often continued to share music until class started, with him leaning forward in his chair and doodling absently in his book and me leaning back, half asleep, and the white ear buds dangling between us while Basshunter poured a beat into our ears.

It was a typical morning for us. I had already been awake for three hours and wasn't anywhere near ready to start learning.

Tweek was wired and you could tell because his free hand wouldn't stop tapping his desk and his leg was bouncing so damn hard it shook my chair. The equivalent of four cups of coffee and ADHD will do that to you.

But while he was uptight, he didn't seem to be on the verge of any sort of freak out, which was good, because I've dealt with Tweek on bad mornings, and it's not very fun for either of us. Normally we both wind up punching each other in the face and that just turns into a mess because school faculty can't figure out that sometimes punching someone in the face really is the best way to solve your problems.

Chatter ruled the classroom and it would continue to until the first bell rang. Even that wouldn't actually begin the school day; following the first bell, we would then have to suffer through five to ten minutes of morning announcements, as well as the morning pledge.

I remember there was a time when the Pledge of Allegiance was not mandatory in school, and these days I'm not sure if it is. It's been a couple of decades since I've set foot in a school, to be fair, so give me some leeway here.

But, just in case you went to some school that never made you recite the Pledge, here's a quick explanation:

The Pledge of Allegiance is a short, well, pledge, that kids were made to say every day in school. Kind of cultish, if you ask me, but it was supposed to be patriotic. I think it came about in the 1940's or something, and it's changed a lot since it first appeared, namely at some point some genius decided to add the ones "one nation, under God," which made everyone who didn't believe in at least some kind of God (or anything other than a Christian God because apparently it was implied to be the Christian God? I don't fuckin' know) get their panties all in a twist and start flipping out. Every morning in school we would stand, with our hand over our hearts, and face the nearest flag, (one would be shown on television if there was not one available in the classroom) and we would promise our allegiance to the flag of the United States of America.

Like I said, it sounds kind of like some kind of cult initiation. Even in elementary school I thought it was a lot of bullshit, (I didn't even know what the word allegiance meant in the early years of elementary school, nor did I know what the hell a Republic was or why exactly we stood for it) but damn near everyone in the country knew the words by heart, could recite them in their sleep, and every day we mindlessly swore fealty to the colors like goddamned robots.

There had been some stink over forcing kids to say "Under God" and it was often optional, if not simply skipped entirely, for a few years hit and miss. Then came 9/11 and all of a sudden it was unpatriotic in the worst way not to say the pledge, like if we all chanted the words in unison it would create some goddamned force field around the country that would stop anyone from ever attacking us ever again.

In this day and age most people, (I say that as though five years was an eternity; as though five years after 9/11 everyone should have just gotten over it by then) thought it was kind of silly, not just me, and most kids would stand with their hands over their hearts very half-heartedly, not even trying to hide their boredom, and sort of mumble or even just lip sync the words. Even then, no one seemed to care.

I think it was a long time before reciting the Pledge of Allegiance stopped being a thing again, but at the time, even though the shock of the Twin Towers was winding down and the country was slowly starting to move along, we all just kept saying the pledge, like muscle memory, like it would have been bad luck to stop or something. Maybe it was more superstition than patriotism that made us just keep saying it. I know most of us didn't even realize what it was we were saying.

"Ngh." As mentioned, Tweek had a tendency to make a sort of choked swallow combined with a squeak when something alarmed him. Being half asleep, hearing this abruptly snapped me out of it, and I glanced over my shoulder to see what the problem was.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing, sorry," he grumbled. He was still doodling in his book.

"What?" I asked again, more impatiently. He was not to fool me that easily.

"It's nothing," he insisted. His leg began to bounce more rapidly. "I just was thinking and I thought something that kind of startled me, that's all."

This was a lot more common than you'd think. If you think the kid was hyper on the outside, wait until you get a full dose of his mental diarrhea. "If you make me ask again, don't expect me to show you any kind of sympathy whatsoever," I warned him.

"You wouldn't show sympathy anyway," he muttered. Which was true. And he paused long enough for me to mentally acknowledge this and nod once, carelessly. It wasn't news to me, nor did I consider it much of an insult. "Well, it's just, you know how they finished that bridge last week, right...?"

"In the park?" I asked.

From the corner of my eye I could see him nodding, or I think he was nodding; he might have just been shaking all over. "I saw it the other day. It looks really good."

"That's great." I don't think I could have been less enthusiastic if I'd tried. I didn't see how this could possibly startle someone.

"I was just thinking, I just had a thought-"

The final bell clanged and resonated throughout the room, instantly cutting the raucous chatter to something just above a whisper, and startling Tweek into shutting him up completely. After a few moments, the intercom buzzed, requesting that the teachers in each room turn on their televisions for the morning announcements. We all rose from our seats with collective groans and sighs while our teacher flipped on the TV hanging in the corner, whereupon in moments, a majestic U.S. Flag would begin to wave, and we would swear our allegiance to it.

I felt a tugging at the side of my head, and then I heard Tweek whispering to me. "Hey man, give me my earbuds." I'd stood up with mine still in my ear.

I yanked it out and turned slightly to pass them off, and that's when I noticed.

Kenny wasn't standing. This didn't immediately leave a big impression on me. I'd heard of this sort of thing happening on occasion, though I'd never actually seen someone have the balls to sit and refuse to stand in light of the attacks, especially a month after the fifth anniversary. I'd never seen someone simply refuse to say the pledge before. Not someone I knew personally.

However, being a self-centered shithead, I noticed it and moved along with my life. If Kenny was trying to make some kind of petty point by refusing to stand, I did not care to interpret it. I raised a brow and looked back at Tweek, and when he shrugged, equally as apathetic as I was, we both decided to ignore him.

The announcer began to recite the pledge and we said it along with him as we always did. Kenny remained slouched low in his seat the whole time, his feet propped up on the chair in front of him, and he made no indication that he even heard his twenty-some classmates saying a word, let alone simultaneously reciting the pledge of allegiance.

Throughout the pledge, a few others turned to look at him, curiously, but none really commented on him. Not at first. Though not many people simply refused to say it back then, in the coming years, it would be a common thing for students to refuse on "moral grounds," enough that a lot of schools (especially high schools) simply did away with it. Ours included. It was more of a nuisance than it was worth. Back then though, it was seen as rebellious, unpatriotic, and above all, downright childish. We figured maybe he was having a bad day and he was pissed off and stewing in his own little world.

He didn't look it, though. He wasn't like sullen or sulky or anything, and actually he looked kind of bored. I tried to remember if he had stood every day since we'd started the year, but I honestly could not, which was probably more likely to his (and my) tendency to skip class than a hole in my own memory. As it was now, he didn't seem like he had any particular reason not to stand; he just didn't. It was like the very concept of the pledge meant nothing to him.

You can understand how this would appeal to me, and in a way I shared this same apathy towards this tedious morning ritual. I vaguely wondered at the time why _ I _ even bothered standing, and the bottom line was just my old standby: because I didn't want trouble. I didn't want to draw attention to myself. The fact was that I'd always been told to and it never occurred to me to do the opposite of what I was expected to do, because I hated confrontation.

When we had finished, we all took our seats again and waited on the morning announcements, which would be presented by a handpicked group of students that somehow managed to pluck up enough zest and give-a-fucks to sound like they cared at eight in the morning.

While we waited, as expected, our teacher addressed Kenny's blatant refusal to stand. She did it in the same sort of bemused, distantly curious way that we had glanced at him during the recital. She was young, and authority didn't come naturally to her. We knew this; we had exploited this. "Kenny? Was there a particular reason you didn't say the pledge today?"

Kenny shrugged. He was still slouched in his seat, his arms were still crossed at his chest, his feet were still propped on the desk in front of him. "No ma'am, I just didn't want to."

"Oh." How do you argue something like that? Furthermore, how could you tell a TEACHER something like that? Just refusing to do something that everyone did, everyone ALWAYS did, and back it up with something as flimsy as 'I didn't want to'? We'd half-expected some really brilliantly crafted rationale delivered in a cool, steely voice, or maybe some kind of passionately woven explanation reminiscent of some inspiring public speaker, and he'd disappointed us. He had done something and then proceeded to back it up with nothing. Our interest waned immediately.

She seemed to think it was a very touchy, very personal reason though, despite his lack of reaction, and her next words were said very cautiously. "If you object to saying 'Under God,' you can just skip that part."

"That's not the problem ma'am, I believe there's a God."

"I see," she acknowledged uneasily. If it wasn't a religious objection, that meant it was a political objection, and that was probably even harder to deal with. "Then, maybe if you just object to saying the pledge, you could just stand for it, but not say anything?"

"Why?" he asked. He didn't insert a hint of impudence into the word; he was just asking a simple, honest question. "Is it against the rules for me to refuse to stand or something? I'm not disrupting the class, I'm just, you know." He shrugged, like it didn't matter. "Just makin' a small statement, that's all."

She frowned and was quiet for a moment. I think we were all wondering, because it had never really occurred to us whether standing for the pledge was a rule or not. We had never asked. We had been told to do it and so we all just sort of did it. "I suppose not," she mused. "Well, if you have a personal objection to it and you aren't bothering anyone, I don't see a problem."

"Thank you, ma'am."

And that was it. Simple as that.

There was an assortment of chatter throughout the morning announcements, which consisted most of upcoming school events and sports shit no one cared about. There was quite a lot of "well fuck, if he can sit then I'll just sit too," and also quite a lot of critical jeering about anti-American behavior. Most others ignored it entirely, and I would have been part of this group but for Tweek.

"What do you think that was about?" he whispered over my shoulder, leaning in close.

I replied, still staring blankly ahead, not really paying attention, "I don't know. I don't really care, either."

"I was sort of expecting him to explain himself, that's all," he continued, musing. "If his feelings are strong enough to refuse to stand up, then you'd think he would explain his stance, wouldn't you?"

I glanced over my shoulder at Kenny. He still seemed unaware of the looks and the hushed whispers people were exchanging; it was a small class, it wasn't hard to catch onto it. Funnily enough, it didn't seem to occur to anyone to actually ask Kenny directly why it was he had felt the need to remain seated. He just continued to sit there, looking bored, looking like he was trying to fade away and remain unnoticed. He usually did. You didn't normally notice Kenny McCormick unless you were looking for him; he had a knack for staying in the background. The fact that he'd intentionally made himself a target was unusual, if not uncharacteristic.

"It's none of our business," was my eventual decision on the matter. It shouldn't have surprised anyone, least of all Tweek, and it didn't. "It doesn't affect me, so I don't care, and I don't think you should worry about it either."

"Yeah, but-" Tweek was looking at him out of the corner of his eye, indirectly, trying not to make it quite so obvious. "I'm just curious, though..."

"Tweek, listen." I turned my head again to just barely look at him, but not quite directly. He didn't care for eye contact. "Why does it matter? Did it really affect anyone? No. Did it change anything? No. So what does it matter what he did? If he gets a kick out of not conforming then let him do it, fat load of fucks I give. I don't know why anyone's even talking about it in the first place. It was a pointless gesture. Get the fuck over it."

Tweek sighed and went back to doodling. I could hear his foot bouncing again, and then I could feel it. "You're right," he told me, sort of uneasily. I could hear his pencil scratching on the paper for a few seconds, and then he asked, casually, "So, were you going to keep standing tomorrow?"

I shrugged. I hadn't really thought about it. "Probably."

"Why?" Tweek asked. Like Kenny, it was a simple and honest question.

"Why not?" I replied.

"Well, I don't know...you know, like, I'm not very political, but it really says something when you refuse to stand and um, well I kinda agree with it. Anyway, I was just kinda thinking if I wouldn't get in trouble, I k-kinda want to stay seated too."

I remember I rolled my eyes at the time. I thought Tweek was being melodramatic. Politics and wars and things like that were for old grump geezers like my dad; not kids like us, not like Tweek. It didn't even occur to me that Tweek might have opinions on something as lame as _politics_. Kenny neither. I just assumed that they just didn't feel like standing up in the morning. "Don't be stupid," I berated him. "She just said it was okay for one guy to do it because she didn't want to cause trouble. If everyone does it, then she'll worry SHE might get in trouble, and then EVERYONE gets in trouble. It's just a stupid morning ritual that lasts less than twenty seconds. What's it matter if you do it? Nothing. What's it matter if you DON'T do it? Conflict. Do you really want that?"

Tweek twitched. He didn't like conflict or confrontation any more than I did. "I guess you're right," he said again. He was playing with a bit of his hair, pulling it a little too hard, and I addressed it sharply.

"Don't pull out your damn hair, we worked too hard to get you to stop in the first place. Where's your damn rubber bands?"

His hand wavered over his empty wrist, and then he started pinching the skin. "Stopped wearing them," he muttered. "Thought I'd broken the habit." His foot was bouncing violently now, I could feel it; I was sure the desk next to him could probably feel it too.

"Look, sit if you want to. It's probably not gonna be that big a deal. I'm just guessing, I don't know." I had to say something to calm him down, is all. The rough car ride and this on top of that were all starting to become a recipe for one of his episodes, and I just didn't want to handle that today. Any little bit at this point might be enough to push him just far enough.

"No, no you're right," he said surely. He sounded pretty certain of himself, though his voice was still kind of shaky. "Sorry. If I did it, it would just cause tr-trouble. I don't want that."

"Okay then. So, calm the fuck down and stop trying to shake your fucking leg off."

Abruptly, his leg stopped. The vibrations finally stopped assaulting my desk.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"It's whatever." It irritated me when Tweek apologized too much. I tried not to let it show. I added, a little more gently, "I think you should start wearing your rubber bands again. There's nothing wrong with having something to cope with your nerves." Maybe I sounded cold, indifferent, but sometimes I thought that was what he needed: for someone to get rid of all the maybes and cut through all the bullshit for him and just give him a solid, definite answer. It sounds like I didn't care, but I promise you, I did. I'm pretty sure he knew that too. Pretty sure.

"Yeah, I will. Sorry." He took a deep breath. He'd started tapping his pencil on his desk, and that was possibly more annoying than the leg. I hoped he would stop when the teacher started talking. "Man, I need a smoke..."

"We'll grab one after this period is over," I agreed.

That was the day it began for me, I think. That was the day it started, although I didn't realize it at the time. Like the others in my class, I didn't ask the boy who refused to stand why it was he had refused something that came so naturally to us. Why would I? Kenny meant nothing to me. Not then. And it would be another two weeks before I would even talk to him, and months before I can say he meant anything, and years before I would admit that I cared.

In refusing to stand, Kenny had said a lot, but I hadn't heard a word, and neither did anyone else. Actions weren't always louder than words.

But I'm glad he had only refused to stand and then left it at that, because had he tried to explain himself then, I don't think I would have listened. I wouldn't have been ready. I think I would have rolled my eyes and written him off as another typical rebellious extremist who just did stuff to go against the man. I don't think he would have mattered.

Kenny would later do a lot of things, things I didn't understand and things that would say incredible things and mean more than he could ever say, all of which would continue to fall upon my deaf, detached ears until the very end.

But when I think of everything that happened after, I remember it started with a boy who called his teacher ma'am and said he believed in God and asked if there was anything wrong with making a statement, even if it was a silent one. He _did_ something. It wasn't what he _said_ or _meant_; it was what he _did_.

As for me, I have a lot to say, or at least I have a lot to say about Kenny McCormick. But that's not until later. Much later.


	12. Part Two: Infinite

**Part Two  
><strong>  Infinite  **  
><strong>

_Don't use words too big for the subject. Don't say infinitely when you mean very; otherwise you'll have no word left when you want to talk about something really infinite._

C.S. Lewis


	13. Part Two: Nice and Boring

Nice and Boring

Now that we've got the easy stuff out of the way, things start to pick up a little more. They call that part of the story the "exposition," or the build up to the actual story. I'm sure you found it all exceedingly boring and tedious, but it's a necessary stepping stone for what comes next. If I had just started off in the middle of the mural or the El Camino or the Bijou, you just wouldn't be able to understand. It would be way too much for you to take in at one time. And at the end, when Kenny did what he did, it would have meant nothing.

So we're doing this story the way I want to. Slow. Deliberate. Nice and boring, just the way I like it.

That first day, the day I so painstakingly described to you, is over and done with. That's it. Nothing else important happened, so it would be wearisome and pointless for me to keep going on about it. Remember that I said I was only going to tell you the stuff that mattered. Get used to time skipping like this, because it's going to happen a lot. Not all of the important stuff happens consecutively.

The story picks up again about two weeks later, just after the first week of November. Tweek's birthday was imminent, and I would soon have my second encounter with Kenny, this one more of a direct impact (literally) rather than a side swipe. I would also be shown a symbol, one that would find a recurring place in the clusterfuck of my life, and one that would keep me believing in something long after I had given up on everything. Some people wasted their whole lives trying to find the meaning of life, forgetting that something as simple as paint on a wall could become their own meaning of life. Something as simple as love being infinite.

You'll get your story eventually. For now, I need to explain to you the Breakfast Club, fishy business, the line, a hushed battle plan, two bad kids, the midnight deception, stars on the bridge, and the symbol that would change everything.

There's a lot more ground to cover in this small section of my life, but I'll try to keep it brief and to the point. Just remember. Slow and deliberate. Nice and boring. Purposeful, relevant information.


	14. Part Two: The Breakfast Club

The Breakfast Club (Craig and Those Guys)

I think I should probably go into some detail about my little group before I continue any further, so I may as well cash in on that rain check I promised you. I mean, I talk about these people as though you've known them all along, and that's not really right, is it? There's a lot of little, tiny pieces that you need to put together first to understand them.

Of course, if you have no interest in being told direct, factual details about the people who all play a role in this story, then by all means, skip ahead to the next chapter. I'm not going to force you to care about these people just because I do. And let me assure you, I do.

I should add before I begin that while a lot of people had taken to calling it "Craig's gang," it is not a gang, and it is by no means mine. I'm not entirely sure where the title first popped up or why it stayed for as long as it did, but don't mistake us for anything but a lot of oddball guys who all sort of came together to be friends. I am by no means the leader of this group of friends and I assure you that no one in their right mind would trust me to make decisions for them. I could hardly make decisions for myself.

Clyde was my best friend throughout elementary and middle school, but in freshman year he joined the football team and we distanced a bit. He was a wide receiver and as I understood it, he was pretty good, but sports were of little interest to me. You'll notice that while I freely refer to Clyde as my best friend, I don't spend quite so much time with him as you would expect. It's a sad fact of life when the people you're closest to begin to distance, and sometimes we cling onto them longer than we really should.

Clyde was about a year older than most of us, which is why he was driving when the rest of us were still wondering if we should even bother getting our licenses. Born in April 1989, he remained in kindergarten an extra year due to an inability to grasp letters. He simply could not figure them out; he would try to wrestle them into his head and they would simply float away.

He would later be diagnosed dyslexic, but only mildly; he eventually figured out a way to make letters work for him, and he tried to explain it once to me. He basically turned letters into math, and it made no sense to me, but then again, I'm not particularly good at math other than basic memorization.

It was his extra year of kindergarten that resulted in us being such good friends, even though as people we were stark contrasts in the grand scheme of things. He felt stupid and he wanted a friend when all of his had moved on to first grade, and I was socially withdrawn and not used to crowds and I wasn't taking school well. We clicked instantly and that, as they say, is that.

Clyde lost his mom when he was ten, and it affected him a little more than most people realized. He was a cry baby; everyone knew that, everyone had always known that. So when he cried, it was never really such a big deal. I think I was the only one who ever saw him at his most vulnerable, and who knew when it was a big deal.

His dad never remarried and his sister started her own life years ago, (Clyde was only 3 when she was going off to college; he had been what some might hesitate to call "an accident") so it was just him and his dad for half his young life back then. They didn't have a lot of money, so Clyde always dressed pretty conservatively, usually what he could find in bargain bins and thrift shops and what his dad could get on discount from the mall. He was uncannily good at finding secondhand brand name clothes like American Eagle, and a lot of kids at school didn't realize he was poor because of that. In reality, he wasn't too far behind me, Kenny, and Cartman, the three resident welfare kids in our grade.

Clyde was the type to keep up appearances, like how he always smiled when he was on the brink of tears, and he had too much pride to ever ask for help. In a lot of ways, Clyde was a lot like Kenny. I wondered how I'd never noticed before, and how two similar boys could have wound up so different in the end.

As I probably hinted pretty strongly, his dad had a tiny little gambling problem. Sometimes it worked out for the best, like The Car. Sometimes Clyde bartered shoes out of his locker for some cash to eat lunch. I'm sure you're sick of me saying it at this point, but this is relevant later.

Despite his questionable father figure and his distinct lack of a mother figure for half his life, Clyde was an overbearing friend for those he cared about, (if slightly cold and cruel to those he did not) and he was something of a mother hen for us. Maybe it was because he was a little older; maybe it was because he cared.

Oh yes, and the shoes.  
>It was as simple as this. Clyde's dad had a shoe store, so Clyde had shoes.<br>A lot.  
>He had every color, every shape, and every style. I think he owned more pairs of shoes than most chicks went through in their life times.<br>And he was never once ashamed of it, and I liked him for that. Simple and honest and innately kind; that was Clyde.

Token was actually one of the first friends I ever had, (Clyde would come later, as I said, in kindergarten) and we hit it off on our first day of preschool in a very roundabout way.

I asked him why he was black.

Get off it; I was four, and if you haven't ascertained by now, I was a very blunt kid. I said whatever I thought and I had little to no social filter. We lived in a small town and Token was the first kid I'd ever met in real life whose skin was darker than mine. I was intrigued, and I'm rarely intrigued.

To his credit, rather than get upset for my brusqueness, Token had replied that he'd been born like that. Simple; just how I liked it. And thus, I liked Token. I never questioned it again, nor did I ever particularly notice his skin color again.

I didn't often question anything, even things I did not like. While I admit I carried many of my less redeeming qualities into adulthood, Kenny destroyed my ability to simply accept things how they were, as well as my desire to forever remain uninvolved. The same could not be said for Token. I think Token cared more about information and knowledge than even Kenny did, and while it's going to take some time for you to see this, it will come back around eventually.

Token joined the school band in freshman year, and in sophomore he had found himself on the second chair viola, whatever that meant. I was not that much more into music than I was into sports. But while their extracurricular activities separated them a bit from the rest of us, Token and Clyde became all the better friends because of it, and I think though we've all moved from South Park, Clyde would sooner call Token his best friend than me.

I am not bitter about this; it is a fact.

And besides, Token helped Clyde out a lot. Clyde was too proud to ask for help or handouts, and Token was discreet enough to do things to help him without making it obvious. Crepes and lingonberries in the snow were an occasional treat for me, but Token would bring entire Tupperware containers full of whole meals to Clyde.

"They're leftovers from like two days ago. They're going to be thrown out anyway," he would say, and Clyde would feel safe to eat it, because it wasn't a hand out; it was just food about to be wasted.

Token understood the importance of tact, which was something that many of us would not understand until much, much later, and in some cases (hint hint) we might never really understand at all.

Token dressed nice, like a fashion designer laid out his clothes in the morning, and his casual clothes probably would have fetched enough at the pawn shop to fund an entire wardrobe for us country bumpkins. He wore real leather jackets with mink collars and and those fucking absurd Burberry scarves that ran like $300. He had three or four pairs of shoes total that probably cost more than Clyde's entire collection of them.

This wasn't his fault. In fact, it kind of embarrassed him. He was one of the only families in town that rested reasonably well on upper-class, and he was an only child. He got everything he ever needed, he never wanted anything, and he always had the best of everything. But as I assured you earlier, he never let it go to his head, and while we were all far too proud to accept his generosity most of the time, we certainly had no trouble accepting him.

Of the five of us, I think Token was probably the least likely to cause trouble, and that, especially, was why I liked him. He was a good guy, a popular guy, and well-liked around school, which was a lot more than could be said for the remaining members of our misfit ensemble, as you will find out.

Jimmy was probably the nicest out of all of us, and that was probably something of a curse for him. Born with cerebral palsy, his legs were shriveled and useless for walking, and he made his way around school with a pair of crutches that were probably older than he was. He never once complained about his disability; in fact, he made jokes about it. Jimmy loved humor. Good, clean, simple humor; that was his calling in life. He said that not everyone liked the same music, and not everyone liked the same movies, but everyone appreciated humor, and that was what brought the world together.

Unfortunately, his condition also brought a speech impediment to the table, and his awkward, stuttered responses were often thought funnier than the jokes themselves by those cruel enough to find humor in such things.

As was the case in most high schools, being nice and being funny did not necessarily make one popular. Despite probably being one of the kindest people in this town, Jimmy was often an outcast, and that was because he shared a very unpopular trait with me: he was dead honest. Jimmy was much nicer about calling bullshit than I was, but he always called 'em how he saw 'em, and then to soften the blow, he would often make a joke in response.

This more than anything was probably what made people tend to avoid him. He often gave one the impression that he was insulting you, when nothing could be further from the truth.

A knack for observational humor often left one with an unusually well-developed eye for casual observation, and a very fine one for deeper insight. Jimmy was very good at reading people and understanding them, and I think that's why he was never scared of me like other kids were. Unlike some, he knew that I was not all my reputation built me up to be, and he trusted me implicitly when I think even Clyde and Token sometimes had their doubts.

There's not a lot to say about him otherwise. His parents were overbearing in regards to his disability and he didn't like it being brought up. He didn't like being treated differently because he was disabled, which I think is why he hung out with us. As different as we all were, we had all taken to ignoring things about each other that others would be extremely nosy about, such as my blatant disregard for social etiquette or Tweek's astronomical freak outs about nothing or Clyde's tendency to cry over _everything_ or why Token had sushi and soybeans for lunch instead of a peanut-butter sandwich. We were a lot of misfits and, being a misfit himself, Jimmy sort of fit right in.

As much of a gaggle as we were, he kept us grounded, sometimes. A jokester doesn't necessarily mean you can't be a realist. I think he saw things the way Kenny did, from various perspectives and understanding a lot more than a single person should be able too. Because people were so damn different; different people would witness an event completely separate ways. And yet Jimmy always seemed to catch on right away; he always seemed to see right through things and know the right answer.

I liked Jimmy. I think at the time I worried most about Jimmy than anyone else in our group, simply because he was unassuming and kind. It was always the kindest ones who got taken advantage of.

I intentionally save Tweek for last, even though other than Clyde he winds up being probably the most important person in my group, and aside from Kenny probably the most important person in my life at this point in time. Not for nothing, Tweek later becomes almost as relevant as Kenny later on, although it was a long time before I really realized just how relevant, and just how important he would be.

As you know by now, Tweek was quiet. He didn't really talk and he didn't really do anything on his own. In grade school, he'd been very hyper and very twitchy, even more so than he was now, which I think is how kids wound up calling him "Tweek" to begin with.

Of course Tweek's not his _real_ name; what kind of town do you think we lived in? Christ. His real name isn't relevant because no one ever called him otherwise, so don't get all uppity wondering about it. Even his parents called him Tweek, though I think they thought it was a derivative of their last name, which happens to be Tweak.

Tweek Tweak. Yup. The name of one of my best friends. You can begin doubting the sincerity of the rest of the story now.

Anyway, concerning the kid himself: as a teenager he had mellowed out, remaining nervous and high-strung but losing that crazed sort of hyperactivity that had earned him his title in the first place, (though this inspired no sympathy in anyone else in regards to changing his name) and he spent most of his time just sketching in his book. Normally his hands were always shaking, always quivering, but when he drew they magically steadied, and some astounding shit came from those hands.

I think I was one of the few people he showed his art. He didn't want the attention or the expectations; it was too much pressure for him.

Tweek always dressed in clothes that were too big for him. It wasn't too unlike Kenny, who as the second born always seemed to get his brother's hand-me-downs, but I don't know what Tweek's reason for it was; he was an only child. When not hiding in giant hoodies, he mostly wore long-sleeved shirts and sometimes an unbuttoned over shirt on top of them, mostly because he never had the patience to actually button a shirt properly. His straw-colored hair was a long, knotted mess I don't think he ever combed a day in his life, and sometimes the strands even kind of looked like straw, all stiff and dry. It was an unkempt mess of frizz that always stuck straight out, like he was always channeling some kind of constant static energy.

The most significant thing about Tweek was that he always looked tired. His eyes were always half lidded and he had incredible bags under his eyes, very dark and very thick; insomnia had permanently painted them under his eyes and it made you wonder if he even remembered what sleep was. His face always gave off this sort of impression like he was half descended into some unbidden dream. It was a rather abrupt change from our grade school years, back when he'd been so hyper and so high strung that he had jokingly earned the nickname "crackhead" in addition to his long-lasting moniker.

With the introduction of Ritalin in seventh grade and weed in ninth grade, he had settled comfortably into the stoner stereotype. This was not a bad thing. Even in a small town with pseudo-religious hicks everywhere, weed was rampant. It was the only goddamned thing to do. Half of the adults smoked weed on a regular basis. Earning the stereotype did not distance him at all, and in fact, the five of us would sometimes all pitch in to smoke a few bowls with him. Yours truly would often go off alone with him to Stark's Pond, just to pass a joint back and forth and feed ducks stale bread and talk about how many galaxies there were and why we thought the aliens hadn't visited us yet.

As I said, South Park Population: less than 1,000 people. There was nothing else to do.

But there was one thing to remember about Tweek, and that was this: being a pothead did not mean he was stupid, and it did not mean he was not a good person. On top of that,Tweek was very quiet, but he was very keen, and just because someone isn't talking doesn't mean that they aren't still listening.

There will be more later, especially in these coming pages that form the road that will soon lead to Kenny. I promise that you'll understand everything shortly, if you wouldn't mind just being extra patient with me for now.

When it came to our awkward gang of misfits, I sometimes liked seeing it as the Breakfast Club's bastard child.

Clyde was your jock, except he was kind and a softie and smarter than you gave him credit for.  
>Token was your popular kid, but his popularity never stopped him from forgetting who his friends were.<br>Jimmy was your friendly nerd who always tried to fit in and never quite seemed to manage it.  
>Tweek was your odd man out, the socially inept "weird kid" that no one else WOULD hang out with.<p>

And then there was me, somehow holding it together.

I guess if I'm making Breakfast Club comparisons, that would leave Bender to me, but I found it hard to consider myself the John Bender type, despite what many authority figures in my childhood would have liked to you to believe. I was not a troublemaker, I was not a victim of abuse, I was not trying to get a rise out of people, and I did not dislike authority. If you don't mind me putting myself up on a pedestal, I like to think I was actually, comparatively, a pretty good kid. At least for the early part of my life.

What was true about me was that I liked peace and quiet, and while I didn't like being told what to do, I would do it, often without question, almost always to try to achieve my first and only goal: I did not want trouble.

And yet, trouble always seemed to find me.

I was generally regarded in South Park as a bad kid. Many parents wouldn't let me in their homes without supervision, and whenever something was stolen around school, somehow I would always wind up on the list of suspects.

I "got caught" several times. I never did it.

I was also accused of being the one to start sifting weed through school when my year finally started picking up on it. There was this one crotchety old bitch, Mrs. Broflovski, (she always seemed like she was preaching about something or another) who once found a dimebag in her son's dresser and gave my mother an earful about what a bad influence I was. I don't think my own mother believed that I hadn't pawned it on him, though neither of them had any proof.

Kyle, (yes, the same Kyle I've spoken of before; he plays a role in all this too, don't worry) later came to me to apologize. He said that he'd told her off and I shouldn't be hearing from her again.

Again, since I see no reason to keep mysteries: I did.

Tweek later came to apologize as well; he told me that he'd been the one to sell Kyle the weed, (he offered to give himself up to get the bitch off of my back; I told him not to be an idiot) and to not be TOO mad at Kyle. He had been really stressed with his mother was riding him so hard and he was just looking for a way to chill out. I didn't buy it.

Other than that, a distinct ignorance of social etiquette and verbal filter made me unpopular and widely considered rude and mouthy, but I considered myself honest and straight forward and, most of all, shy.

That's right, stop the presses: I was shy. And I really was. I didn't often speak to anyone outside of my circle, and I had trouble making new friends after the ones I already had. I never volunteered myself for anything and I never wanted to do anything different. If society ever thought that I was frightening, I should say that it was because I was so frightened of society.

Unfortunately, this didn't stop anyone from riding me or get anyone off of my back. Ignoring the taunting and teasing often made it worse rather than making it go away, and I developed a violent streak that did nothing to improve my reputation. I got in a lot of fights because that was all anyone ever seemed to understand; it was the only thing about me they never misunderstood. If my fist hits your face and your face hits the floor, it means that you should not fuck with me. This lesson I taught to many people, and I'm happy to say that for many of them, it stuck. Other than my small group of friends, I was mostly left alone. I preferred to be left alone.

You might notice that within all of my little synopsis of my friends, one name in particular kept repeating and yet an explanation never followed. You may be wondering at this point: who exactly is Kenny?

Yeah, we've met him, briefly, but as far as you know he's some stupid kid in one of my classes that I've already written off as irrelevant.

He's not important right now. Later he will not only mean something, but everything. Later he will inspire me and mesmerize me and destroy me and uplift me, but for now, he's just a name. Some kid I know. For now, that's all you need to get by in the story.

It's worth noting that you also haven't really had a chance to meet Jimmy yet either, but I promise, he'll be making himself relevant in a couple of pages or so.

Thinking about it, I suppose it would be better for you to just figure these things out on your own, to learn about these people on your own terms and come to your own conclusions, but as I've said before, I despise guessing games, and even more than that, I cannot stand assumptions.

These people were very important to me, and I don't want your presumptuous little brain to infer things about them that are not true.

You can presume all you want about me, though. If that's another thing you should know about yours truly, it's that I care about very few things, and those things I do not care about, I am incredibly indifferent towards.

But it's also worth noting that when I do care about them, I am relentless, passionate. I cannot be stopped.

But, that's a while down the road. So far you have only met apathetic shitbag Craig; have fun while he lasts.

Right now, he's about to agree to take a leap off of a cliff, although he thinks it's only a stepping stone. Are you wondering how long it takes him to fall before he hits the bottom again? Because let me tell you from experience: it was a tiny ass leap, and it's a long ass fall.


	15. Part Two: Fishy Business

Fishy Business

As I have said, the day of the first snow is over and done with. Fast-forward about two weeks or so, and you'll instead find Craig hunching over a large, industrial sized sink with his hands submerged into soapy water while a corn snake dangled around his neck and shoulders.

This is probably an odd image for you, but first of all, I assure you, corn snakes are harmless. They aren't venomous and they rarely (if ever) harm humans. They constrict their prey sure, but a three foot long snake wasn't about to strangle me to death.

Second of all, while I have not until this point found it relevant to mention, I figure it's finally necessary to inform you that as a teenager, I held a part time job at a pet store. Stevens' Pet Store, to be precise, and no, the apostrophe is not in the wrong spot. It's the family name, not the person's name.

The minimum age to work in Colorado is 14, although to work during school hours required special permissions and other such nonsense that I didn't have the patience to bother with, and there were limits on how long per week I could work. So I could only come in from about 4 in the afternoon until about 8 at night, three or four times a week. Not very long, not very much money, but it was work, and I liked pets. As you may recall from Part One, I have an inclination towards preferring the company of small cute animals over people. And yes, that included animals like Bridgette.

Bridgette being the corn snake.

It was early evening and I was due to get off work in a little under an hour. My current task was to clean out and then replace the water bottles for the rodent cages, and then after that I had some sweeping to do. Easy, mindless, repetitive, tedious tasks; exactly what I liked to do, and I was getting paid for it. Yippee. 

Bridgette was draped over my shoulders and around my neck, and as I rinsed the water bottles, she slowly, painstakingly began to slither over my collar bone. She wouldn't move much after that; being used to the warm climate of the south, she was pretty lethargic when outside her tank and away from her nice heating lamp. But she had been in the pet store for as long as I had been working there, just waiting for someone to find her interesting enough to call a pet, and I felt bad for the animals who had been left here to rot. I often took the veterans of the place out of their cages and walked around the store with them, if for nothing else but to give them some freedom, although I said I did it to drum up interest for them. Mostly, I just liked having a quiet animal companion with me when I had to work. I talked to them sometimes, though I often earned odd looks for it.

After I completely and thoroughly cleaned and rinsed the last of the water bottles, I pulled the plug for the sink to drain and collected the plastic bottles and their caps in my arms. The next morning I would replace the current water bottles with these clean ones, and then the cycle would repeat. When sometimes dozens of rodents wound up using the same water bottle, you could never be too stringent with how frequently you changed them.

That's what I thought, anyway. I was often told I was too thorough. Small town pet stores weren't exactly all about animal welfare.

Bridgette hovered under my chin, staring straight ahead and observing the store as I strode my way to place the bottles somewhere clean and airy to dry. I stroked under her chin with one finger while I nicely arranged the bottle with the other hand, and she obliged me by remaining stiff, holding her head out in mid-air, accepting the attention but not particularly responding to it.

I liked snakes. Make no mistake: if they were pissed off you'd know about it in a hurry, but otherwise, they're probably some of the chillest animals I've ever had the privilege of caring for. They never bothered anything that didn't bother them first, unless they were hungry, which was very rarely. You could do most anything you wanted to a snake (within reason) and it wouldn't give a shit. The epitome of apathy. Beautiful creatures.

By the time I returned to the floor, she had finally crossed over my collar bone the front of my neck and set her head upon my shoulder again. It felt like she was secure enough, so rather than put her away, I went straight to sweeping.

The rodent section always seemed especially prone to getting dirty, or maybe I just looked for reasons to spend time there. Either way, I decided to begin sweeping there.

Before I began, I appreciatively looked through each window on display and noted the rodents behind each window; dozens of mice, a handful of hamsters, a few gangly looking rats, three or four fat, fluffy guinea pigs, and a small gray chinchilla that was still snoozing in a corner. With rodents being my favorite type of pet, I often found excuses to stalk the rodent section several times a day, and I never tired of watching the mice tumbling over each other or the hamsters running in their wheels or the guinea pigs waddling from one side of their display to the other.

Rodents in general were small and cute and perfect. They were quiet and clean and easy to take care of. Reptiles too. In fact, the only pets I didn't like were the typical ones, cats and dogs. They were so big and attention hungry and annoying and way too much trouble.

When all seemed well with the rodents, I began to sweep. In very short notice, I had a nice little pile going of bedding, dust, seeds, and corn kernels, and as usual, I was absorbed into my work. I kept my head down to avoid people, but it was for the most part unnecessary; the pet store was not exactly bustling at this time of night.

I do say for the most part, because after some time, I heard a familiar approach scraping towards me on the cheap linoleum, and before I could even glance up, I knew who would be heading in my direction.

"How's it going C-C-Craig?" someone asked, stumbling a bit over my name but obviously, pleasantly familiar with it.

"Fine, Jim, what's up?" I replied. I didn't stop sweeping, but I also didn't force my eyes away from the rest of the world while hoping to be ignored. When I did glance up, he was there, leaning on his crutches as usual and turning his head to get a good look at me.

"What's a s-s-snake doing around your n-neck?" he asked.

"This is Bridgette," I introduced, allowing a hand to leave my broom handle to stroke her back. "She's helping me with my shift tonight."

"Ah," he said. He didn't come any closer. "No offense to B-Bridgette, but I'd r-rather not shake h-hands." I think he probably thought this was some form of a joke, given that snakes don't have hands and it was difficult for him to shake hands given his condition. I'm not very adept at recognizing humor in general, and Jimmy's brand of humor was a little off kilter sometimes. I opted to ignore it and, as usual, point out the obvious.

"You don't like snakes," I commented, more of a statement than a question.

"D-don't know a lot of people who d-do."

"I love snakes; there's no reason to be scared of a snake. A lot of people are assholes who are scared of things they don't understand. "

"And other people are r-r-reckless and think that if they p-pretend to be unafraid, th-then they are."

This was likely a subtle dig at me, and I didn't mind it very much. Jimmy liked to insist that my icy demeanor was all just a front; I usually told him in response that he was starting to lose his touch with his jokes. I'm pretty sure that both of us really realized that we weren't being cute; we were being blunt.

"Here-" I let my broom lean against one of the rodent displays, and I began to walk towards him. He was a few paces away, and in those few footsteps, I began to unravel Bridgette from my neck. "Just let me-"

"N-n-no way, man." He took a nice big step back with his crutches, almost too big, and he nearly lost his footing. "D-d-d-don't even try it."

"She's harmless, corn snakes don't have any venom and she'll barely even move." I was holding her in both hands, the middle of her body draping down in a ruby red 'U' in between them, and I drew closer to him.

Jimmy wasn't outright afraid, not like Tweek would have been, and trust me, Tweek might have started squealing and running for dear life had I approached him with a snake. Jimmy wasn't afraid because he knew I always told the truth, and if I said she wouldn't hurt him, he knew she wouldn't. But his anxiousness still chopped up the words that left his lips. "Ah, C-Craig, m-maybe you sh-shouldn't, I b-believe you, I d-d-don't think she's-"

I set half of her down on one of his shoulders and then placed the other half of her around his neck until her head rest on his other shoulder. She wrapped around him a little, tightened up around his neck just enough to get a firm grip, and then she just laid there, disinterested, utterly benign.

Jimmy's head was twisting at an odd angle so that he could see her resting so innocuously on his shoulder, and he tilted it forwards to get a good look. He seemed interested, but most of all, he seemed relieved that she was as docile as I'd promised. "I guess she is p-pretty neat," he admitted. He unlatched his arm from one of his crutches, letting it lie against his thigh while he supported his weight with the remaining arm, and he reached up to tentatively pet her. "I guess she's not s-so bad."

I nodded. "Most animals aren't if you give them a chance." I retrieved my broom and went back to sweeping.

Jimmy was startled a little when Bridgette began to slowly cross over his collar bone, as she'd done with me, but she stopped again after she rested her head on his opposite shoulder. I don't think he really liked having her completely around his neck, but she hung so loosely that I think he ultimately decided that it wasn't worth fretting over. Eventually, as a testament to his trust in both her and me, he reattached his crutch, and allowed her to do as she would.

"Anyway, Craig, since you w-work here, I was hoping y-you could help me with something," he said when I had retrieved a dust pan for the fruits of my labor.

"Since I do work here, I probably can help you with something." Always the smart aleck, I was.

"I want this fish," he continued while I crouched down and swept up the floor. "But I d-don't know a whole lot about th-them."

"Luckily, I know a lot about fish." I knew a lot about almost every type of pet really. I was a little obsessive. "Let me toss this and we'll head over there."

The fish section of the pet store was right in the center of it, and it was a beautiful display, probably one of the more elaborate ones I've ever seen, especially in a pet store this small. The aquariums were mounted on a display that was slightly curved and shaped to mimic a fish bowl, and it stretched nearly to the ceiling with tanks and tanks of fish, mostly freshwater. It was hollow inside, with an entrance at both ends, so that a patron could walk inside and stand as though inside a giant fish bowl.

It was very calming, and when Jimmy and I stepped inside, we stood quietly at first and admired the many tanks that surrounded us, brimming with life. The whirring filters provided a steady hum in the background, and the residual light cast wave-like shadows on our faces. I enjoyed the fish section almost as much as the rodent section, if only because it was a place of pure tranquility.

However, we had come here for a purpose, and I nudged him for details. "So what of this fish you're looking for?"

"Well, I've b-been doing some research on the int-t-ternet because my tank has been growing a lot of algae re-recently."

"Okay," I said, if merely to acknowledge him. People came into the store all the time explaining that they had done their research prior to coming, and yet that never seemed to stop them from bothering me, nor from proving to me that they even knew what they were talking about.

"I read about a fish called a pl-ple...a pl-...ple..."

I waited patiently for him to finish, and I glanced up and down the fishbowl to occupy myself in the meantime, even though I already had a pretty good idea of what he was going to ask.

"A ple...p-pl-pleco-ple...ple..."

Still I waited, appearing, (I hoped) incredibly intrigued by the guppies darting back and forth in the tanks. Jimmy was sensitive about people finishing his sentences; he would get there eventually, and I was not in a hurry.

"A pl-...a ple-pleco...a pl-plecostomus," he finally finished in a whoosh of air. He seemed relieved that the word was finally out.

"Algae eater," I distinguished. "To control it naturally."

"Y-yeah. What do you think?"

"Well, we do have some. Over there." I pointed vaguely towards the wall, and Jimmy got closer, looking for the aquarium that housed the plecos. Bridgette went up and down with his shoulders as he pushed himself along, but she didn't seem to mind the upset too much. In the meantime, I followed along and talked behind him. "They grow pretty big though, way too much for normal tank owners to handle them at an adult size. They aren't just a fish you should get for the fuck of it. What size is your tank?"

"Forty g-gallons."

Only here, I let a little impatience slip. I was too familiar with people squeezing too many fish into too small a tank to not. "That's not big enough for anything but a few tiny fish, man. I'm telling you, plecos grow big. Like you'd need at minimum 75 to keep them in, and that's assuming his growth will be stunted because you're keeping him in a small tank to begin with."

But Jimmy was already at one of the tanks, watching the little catfish suckle the glass with interest. "I plan on asking for a bigger one on chr-Christmas, but this is what I have n-now. Is that a real b-b-big problem?"

"You could just clear the algae off manually," I suggested, a little haughtily if I'm honest. People were always trying to find ways to cut corners for keeping a fish tank when they could save a lot of fish the trouble by doing it themselves.

"I could, but..." he trailed off rather than stuttered, in such a way that I figured that it meant it was okay for me to prod.

"But...?" I nudged.

"It's d-difficult for me sometimes, you know, and I don't want to m-make my m-m-mom do it. I almost kn-knocked the tank over l-last time," he admitted, a little shamefaced. "If I get a b-bigger tank, would he b-be okay?"

I just sighed and submitted. At least he wasn't trying to talk to me about putting a beta in a ten gallon tank; that was an argument I had at least once a week. "You'd want a real small one then, something like three inches, two even, until you can upgrade."

"How fast do they gr-grow?"

"Depends on the fish, your tank, your water quality, the number of other fish in the tank..."

While I usually took care not to interrupt him, he had no such qualms towards me, although he didn't do it rudely. "Say on average?"

"Somewhere between three and nine inches a year. You really don't want to keep one in a tank that small for long though."

"Would he b-be okay j-just for another month or two?"

"He'd be no worse off than he is here," I reasoned, which was true enough. I complained about people putting fish in tanks too small, but meanwhile, the pet store's tanks, while beautiful, edged on cruelty.

I helped Jimmy pick the smallest fish I could find in the tank, and after I got it in a bag and tied it up, I led him to the store's stock of fish food. The options were limited, but while there was only one brand, I found what I wanted. Algae wafers. We'd started stocking them recently, on behalf of much balking from me and a few other fish fanciers.

I was still carrying the fish for him, so I grabbed a bag with my free hand, and I offered it to him, turning it around so he could get a look at it. "These are algae wafers," I explained. "Most plecos won't get enough food just eating the stuff off of a tank, so you should give 'em one of these now and then. There's instructions on the bag for how many and how often."

"Alright," he said, accepting my word completely. If I were a more manipulative friend I would have tried to sell him a few other unnecessary additions, but I was not. In this regard I was not a very good employee. I argued too much with the customers and I didn't try to sell them things they didn't need. Still, I kept my head down and cleaned the store incessantly, so I was apparently not bad enough to fire.

I talked him through some more basic information on plecos and discussed some of the other fish currently in the tank, (again stressing that he should really consider getting at minimum a 75 gallon, if not more) and helped him through check out, continuing to, unassumingly, carry his bags for him.

"How are you getting home?" I asked.

"M-my mom is in W-Walgreens," he replied. The pet store was one of a handful of stores in a small shopping plaza; the Walgreens was on the corner of it. "I'll just g-go meet her, she's probably s-still buying stuff."

"Do you want me to walk you down there?"

"If it wouldn't in-inconvenience you t-too terribly, there was s-something else I wanted to d-d-discuss with you."

I agreed, and asked him to wait by the door while I returned Bridgette to her tank and properly put away the broom I had left out. I asked if I could leave for just a few minutes to walk with a friend, (throwing in that he was disabled just in case anyone wanted to give me trouble over it; I _could_ be manipulating, if I wanted to) and was told to just leave early. I only had about 20 minutes left of my normal shift and, as previously stated, the store wasn't exactly bustling, and I knew I'd be getting paid for my full hour anyway.

Only a minute or two later, after I'd bid my adieus and grabbed my jacket, and I found Jimmy still waiting at the door. We exited the store, and walking carefully down the sidewalk, (the snow had been intermittent, and little patches of it popped up here and there) we headed towards the Walgreens.

"There was this other important th-thing I wanted to d-discuss with y-you."

"As you've said," I stated. I had a feeling that Jimmy had come to talk to me over this issue primarily, and the pleco had been a necessary but supplemental distraction.

"The thing is, I think T-Tweek is p-planning something. I guess you could say I'm s-sensing some-" Before he finished, he nodded down towards the plastic bag I was carrying that contained the pleco and his wafers. "-fishy business," he finished, comedic timing as pungent as ever.

"Really," I stated, uninspired and unimpressed by his attempt at humor.

As though he already expected me to disregard his witty pun, he quickly continued. "The thing is, he's mentioned the new b-b-bridge a few times."

I recalled how a few weeks ago Tweek had tried to bring up a similar subject with me, and bad timing had caused us to lose track of the conversation. "The new one in the park?" I asked.

"Y-yeah, the one that goes over the cr-creek. Did he already t-talk to you about it?"

"Not yet," I said, though I neglected to add that he had tried to and failed. However, I was thinking over Tweek's behavior during the past few days, and it occurred to me that he'd become noticeably more anxious and jumpy, which usually indicated a new obsession. I ought to have seen it sooner; it almost perturbed me that Jimmy had been quicker to notice something that I usually picked up on right away.

"Well, just expect it s-soon," he assured me. "I have a feeling that he's starting to work into one of his fr-frenzies over it. I was h-hoping this time you could a-ant...anti...an-anti-anticipate it and discourage him."

"Well, I can't guarantee that I can dissuade him this time, but I'll certainly get it out of him. You know if he's planning something, he won't do it without me."

"I know. That's why I came t-to you." We were coming up fast on the Walgreens, despite our leisurely pace, and soon I would leave him to find his mother and then begin my long, lonesome walk home. Like most parents in South Park, Jimmy's did not take kindly to me, although they often said that they appreciated my support of their son. I guess people were surprised that a guy with a reputation for being a bad kid was nice to a cripple. "I worry about him s-sometimes. He's got no imp-im-impu...imp-...impu...impulse control. You're the only one w-who can talk him out of his n-non-nonsense."

"I can't talk him out of anything, I can only discourage him. But, then again, we don't even know what's eating him. It could be something totally unrelated."

"I hope so," Jimmy replied, sincerely. "For his s-sake, anyway."

When we reached the entrance, I think Jimmy sensed my reluctance at going inside and actually meeting with his mother, so he promised he could take it from there. He slipped his fingers inside the holes in the plastic bag and assured me that it would be no trouble carrying it, and I didn't give him any trouble over it. If he insisted that it was what he wanted to do, then it was what he was gonna do. I rejected his offer for a ride home, and as I had done for him, he accepted my decision without question.

See, this was why I liked Jimmy. He approved of independence and not prying. Unfortunately, this meant that for him to approach me about Tweek, he must have really seen some signs I had not.

When we parted ways, I zipped up my jacket to my neck, shoved my hands in my pockets, and began my solitary trek home. Annoyingly, my thoughts were revolving around Tweek, and how I was going to approach him the next day over his addiction. Some people drank alcohol or did drugs to manage their stress; Tweek Tweak liked to paint.


	16. Part Two: The Line

The Line

While I have said that I despise mystery and keeping secrets, I begin to find it difficult to properly recite this story without at first presenting a few factors and delaying their explanations. If I elaborated on every little thing that popped up, this damn story would take the rest of my life to tell, and while I have mentioned that I am not exactly old, I urge you to believe me (and to not be alarmed) when I tell you that I probably don't have a lot of time to dawdle when it comes to writing this. So just bear with me. I don't want to keep worrying about it either, so I'll get there as soon as I can.

The next day was a school day, and for the most part, it was pretty uneventful. I began to keep an eye on Tweek, more so than I usually did, and I noticed his anxiety was a little more palpable than usual. His drawings also became more erratic, less precise, and I caught him furtively glancing around now and then, as though he were on the look-out for something. All of this usually indicated the thing that I tried to avoid the most: trouble.

It wasn't until midday, around lunchtime, that I found an opportunity to actually discuss his behavior and discern the cause of it.

The five of us were sitting at one of the larger tables in the cafeteria. While the rest of the students filled the cafeteria with a persistent clamorous uproar, our table was, comparatively, subdued. Our loudest member was Clyde, but our most prominent speaker was Token, who spoke softly and with purpose. I don't think we ever really bothered anyone.

Since Tweek and I never really contributed much to conversation, we each had an earbud in, listening to Daft Punk electronically asserting that we were human, after all, which I found a little ironic coming from a duo whose claim to fame was their robotic attire. Or maybe that was the point. Literary techniques were never exactly my strong suit.

Tweek usually picked at his food and preferred the sweet parts of it than the bulk of it, and he was nibbling halfhearted at an enormous oatmeal raisin cookie while his pile of spaghetti congealed on his plate.

If Clyde or Token thought Tweek was acting odd, they didn't say anything, but then they usually didn't. They were, admittedly, not his biggest fans, and if not for me and Jimmy they might not have hung out with him at all. Their biggest concern at the moment was which movie they were going to see later that week.

"I really wanna see 'Babel', dude," Clyde was insisting. "Come on; Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett; what more do you need?"

"Who's Cate Blanchett, again?" Token asked. He was being a smart ass, because he knew who Cate Blanchett was, we all knew who Cate Blanchett was, and I think that if none of us ever heard the name "Cate Blanchett" for the rest of our lives we would all be very content with that.

Clyde refused to acknowledge his snark and instead went all dreamy eyed. "The mortal goddess who played Lady Galadriel in 'Lord of the Rings,'" he gushed, and we all, collectively, groaned. Clyde had never really gotten over Peter Jackson's 'Lord of the Rings.' It was like an illness. An embarrassing illness.

The woman had maybe half an hour of screen time. We didn't get what the big deal was. But Clyde was smitten, and there was nothing we could do about it.

"I wanna see 'Harsh Times,'" Token insisted. "It looks way more interesting, it's about how like, this Army guy comes home and goes crazy from PTSD, and he has to do some crazy illegal shit trying to get his girlfriend to the US. I hear 'Babel' is supposed to be like a whole bunch of stories spliced together and it doesn't even make any sense dude, it's like way too chaotic, way too many story lines."

"Who's in that other one you said?" Clyde asked.

"Christian Bale, the guy who played Batman last year?"

"Oh yeah. I liked him, he was good. I'm glad they're rebooting that series again, dude."

"And Eva Longoria, and she's a total babe," Token said, nudging him suggestively.

"Yeah, she is, but, Cate..." He looked all dreamy again, and Jimmy decided to butt in.

"Excuse me, fe-fellas, but I don't suppose either of you c-care to see 'Str-stranger than F-Fiction?'"

"Huh?" they both said.

"The one with Will Ferrell, who has the n-narrator controlling his life, it sounds hi-hilarious."

Their response was evenly split; Token looked slightly repugnant and Clyde perked up again.

"So it's a comedy?" Clyde said. "I _do_ love Will Ferrell, there any hot chicks in it though?"

"I don't re-remember the lead's name, but Queen L-Latifa is in it."

Token looked slightly less apprehensive. "Alright, Queen Latifa would make it tolerable. I really don't like Will Ferrell though."

"No way!" Clyde sounded and looked insulted. "First you blow off Cate and now you blow off Will Ferrell? You got problems, dude."

Tweek and I were not exactly avid followers of Hollywood, nor were we very indulgent movie goers, so we observed all of this happening before us with easy detachment. We were fine with our friends having these sort of long, intense discussions without including us.

I slurped up spaghetti and watery tomato sauce and continued my observation of Tweek, waiting for the signal that he was finally going to crack. It would come eventually, I knew; the question was at what time.

Being irreparably paranoid, (and given that I was not very subtle) Tweek eventually noticed, and he caught my eye, just for a second, and he tilted his head in my direction. "What?" he squeaked.

"What, what?" I asked.

"You're staring at me," he accused. "What did I do?"

"I don't know yet, that's what I'm aiming to find out," I replied. He caught my eye again, and this time, I was sure that he saw I was glaring at him. He pursed his lips and looked away again, and he didn't reply. Nothing more was said of it then, though he began to stare at his untouched spaghetti with critical unease.

Clyde and Token tried to persuade us to tiebreak for them, and I told them that I had no interest in any of the feature films being released that week, although I mentioned that I would gladly accompany them to see 'Happy Feet' should any of them be interested, provided they didn't mind waiting a few weeks. I think they assumed I was being my normal sarcastic self, because they laughed, although I was not being sarcastic at all. I was being perfectly serious.

Don't be surprised; it stands to reason that if I don't particularly like people in real life, I would not really like watching movies that revolve around their petty problems. It was just that I didn't know anyone who would go with me to see the ones I wanted to see; even Tweek drew the line at singing penguins.

When the bell rang and ended our lunch period, Tweek sort of hesitated packing up his things, and eventually I caught his eye again. He gave me a look; a very meaningful look.

When a kid doesn't talk a lot, a look can say a lot of things, and as he had interpreted my earlier glare to mean that I was suspicious of him, I correctly interpreted this one to mean he needed to talk to me privately.

"Hey guys, go ahead," I said to the others. My friends were not nosy and they were not obnoxious about keeping tabs on us, nor were they easily offended by something as simple as being casually blown off. They acknowledged me and they headed off, with Clyde and Token making headway for Jimmy to follow along behind. He found it difficult to navigate a crowd sometimes on his crutches, but with two bodies giving him a pathway, it was significantly easier.

The cafeteria was nearly drained of students by the time Tweek and I emptied our trays and began, idly, exiting the building. As we usually did, we made it seem like we were not talking at all; he had pulled his hood over his face, only revealing his mouth so that he could mumble, and I still had one of his earbuds in the ear opposite to him. I probably had the glazed, vaguely pissed off look on my face that usually meant "don't talk to me" so that no one would approach us en route to class. This was how we walked together when we had to talk about something that was not strictly lawful. Weed, skipping school, bumming cigarettes. Other stuff. We weren't bad kids; we just did bad stuff sometimes.

"You know that bridge they built over the creek last month?" he asked, and the gig was up. Jimmy had been right.

I gave one curt nod that might have been anything; nodding off a fly, matching a bass drop, etc. I knew what he meant. Over Stark's River, which was called a river when it was in fact little more than an ambitious creek, the city had found it worthwhile to invest in a bridge. A nice one, too; one of those ones that obviously was built for aesthetics as much as for purpose. It was made mostly of smoothed stone and was rather larger than it needed to be, with high walls and a gentle curve, and it had replaced a pretty shoddy wooden bridge that had been little more than a few wooden planks stapled hastily together. The town didn't often spend money making things that were both functional and appealing to look at, and we were all pretty pleased with it.

I had a guess what Tweek wanted to do to that bridge, and my guess was confirmed seconds later: "I wanna tag it," he muttered, glancing fearfully at a passerby as he said so and withdrawing further into his hood. "What are you doing tonight?"

"Nothing," I said. And it was true. Ask me any day of the week if I was doing anything that night and my response would be "no." I didn't really do much. My parents often complained about my lack of social life.

"You good to go?"

"We need more stuff. Used up all the blue and yellow last time." I said this not as though I were agreeing to do the deed, just reminding him that it would not be as easy as he thought it would be.

Tweek swore under his breath. He started thinking. "You got a few bucks?"

"Not a dime."

"Know anyone who wants to buy a bag?"

"Maybe, maybe not. We have to agree to do this first."

We had reached the point where we needed to split. None of the gang often had the same classes, and Tweek and I only shared one this year: English, as you're well aware. We stood at our crossroads for a moment, both of us thinking. Eventually, I pulled the earbud out of my ear and handed it off to him, and he accepted it distantly. He was biting his lip, obviously troubled, plainly still caught up in what Jimmy called his "frenzy." That was how Tweek got when he had a new project in mind.

"I'll get back to you," I told him. I didn't have time to talk him out of it yet, so it was prudent of me to, for the time being, appear to be going along with it.

He nodded. "I'll let you know."

Someone bumped into him and he tweaked out like he used to in grade school; he made a high pitched noise almost like a squeak and his whole body twitched like he'd been electrocuted. He was always an anxious kid, always seemed to be on edge, but discussing unlawful things always got his briefs twisted tighter than a damn screw.

"A-alright, see you..." He hightailed it out of there before he could do anything else to draw attention to himself.

I barely made it in time for my next class, but I don't think it would have mattered so much if I hadn't. We had a substitute that day, and ten minutes after the bell rang, there were still students trailing in. There had been a lesson plan left and a worksheet to do, but even the substitute didn't seem to care so much. She put on Finding Nemo (which was oddly appropriate for a Marine Biology class) and spent the period at the teacher's desk, examining her nails.

This happened to be one of the few classes I shared with Clyde, (Marine Biology was one of the easier classes to score a Science credit in; I took it because I liked marine life) and while we normally didn't sit together, we happily moved to the back of the room where no one would bother us. Seating arrangements had gone out the window.

"What did Tweek want?" Clyde asked.

As I've said before and I'll say again, Clyde comes off as oafish and a little slow on the uptake, but he's not. He's very quick, and while I'll say he makes assumptions too hastily, those assumptions have an annoying tendency to end up right.

"The usual," I told him.

"Scoring some green, or...?"

"No." I nonchalantly glanced around to be sure that no one was listening. They were not, and I was not egocentric enough to think that anyone would be terribly interested in our conversation anyway. "He wants to do the bridge tonight."

Clyde made a very quiet whistling noise and leaned back in his desk. He didn't look very pleased. "Dude, not the bridge," he begged. "That shit just got put in. It's hot right now; everyone's looking at it and everyone's still talking about it. People are going to know."

"We've never been caught before," I pointed out.

"That's because you two hit old buildings and shit that no one cares about. The city just spent thousands of dollars putting this stupid piece of shit in the park; they're going to try harder to find out who did it."

"And as long as we're careful, no one will find out."

"Come on dude, just tell Tweek later. Tell him like next year or something and go hit Skeeter's old bar or something."

I contemplated this suggestion and knew almost immediately that it would not do. Tweek had been struck by some artistic inspiration or something, and the only cure for that was the bridge. He would be determined, and if I wanted to stop him, it would need to be done very carefully.

"I'll talk to him," I said anyway, just to placate Clyde. He was peeling skin off of his lip with his teeth and looking more worrisome than an old broad.

"I'd rather you just stopped enabling him," Clyde said. He was building up steam, and I patiently sighed while he continued. "He only goes because you being there gives him the courage to stay. He doesn't have the balls otherwise. But, you'll get in just as much trouble as him if you're there, and you aren't the one DOING IT; that's what pisses me off."

"I like going with him," I said. "I like watching him."

"You get in enough trouble on your own, without even doing anything." Clyde was well aware of my undeserved reputation, but despite his best efforts, there was nothing he could do to quell it. "Fat load of good you're doing yourself by purposely putting yourself into a bad situation."

"Like I said, we've never been caught before," I repeated.

"That doesn't mean you won't get caught the next time, or this time." Clyde shook his head, a little disappointed that I was so nonchalant about his concern for me. "Fuck, dude. I just don't want you looking at juvie because of what some stupid kid makes you do."

I had the unfortunate affliction of not generally caring about anything, and so in the few times I did care, I didn't know how to really show it. Clyde was obviously distressed by the whole thing and I hadn't meant to upset him. This I did care about. Clyde was important to me, one of the few people who were, and I didn't want him to worry about me over Tweek.

"I'll try to convince him to change his mind," I assured him. "You're right; if I don't do it then Tweek won't."

"But WILL you do it?" Clyde insisted; he knew better than to leave it ambiguous.

I hated denying him, but I also knew myself better than that.

"I might," I conceded. "But I'll try to convince him anyway."

Clyde just sighed and shook his head, sadly. I knew he was disappointed, but my curse (and blessing) of apathy meant I could just shrug it off. Clyde could try to mother me all he wanted; he and I both knew in the end that I'd just do what I wanted.

In case it hasn't been made explicitly clear by now, let me explain. Tweek had an artistic hard on of epic proportions, and he had an affinity for toeing what folks like you and I would affectionately call "the line."

He was addicted to wall art. Street murals. Or, what some would call with slightly more distaste, "graffiti."

Tweek was brilliant about it, though. In one night he would craft an entire scene exploding with colors and crawling with critters and letters and everything; just everything. His creativity would just burst and leak all over the walls. It was a fascinating process and I enjoyed watching it very much, seeing him mumbling to himself and jerkily looking over his shoulder and twitching spasmodically if I so much as coughed behind him. I had enough social consciousness to pretend that I disapproved, but to be frank, I rather enjoyed our midnight excursions that left the town a little more colorful than before. It never seemed like trouble to me, although I knew we could get in trouble for it. To me, it was just art.

As Clyde said, I never participated; I only watched. But Tweek felt more secure with someone watching his back, (ever paranoid, he was convinced that he was being watched at all times, and this was one symptom of his eccentricity the pot did not improve upon) and he also felt, again as Clyde had put, more courageous when I was with him. He said my presence was like a solid, immovable rock around which a tidal wave of all other chaos and emotions and fears simply drifted around. I was always calm, and he needed that sort of support when he went painting.

I was a good friend. I was happy to oblige. And while I was determined not to be a troublemaker, I did also have a sort of morbid fascination with teetering on that line.

I would watch the graffiti, but I would never do it.

I would smoke the weed, but I would never deal it.

I thought that somehow made me better; like perhaps it made me a cut above those who would do these things, and I admit, I sometimes thought I was a better person than Tweek, because I would smoke his weed but never sell it for him, and I would watch him paint but never raise a spray can myself.

And I would later correlate this thought process to the war, and it would change how I thought about a lot of things. About how you could be nothing but a casual observer, and yet still reek of guilt; how your hands could be dripping with paint just by passing someone else the brush.


	17. Part Two: Hushed Battle Plan

Hushed Battle Plan

The story does not continue until the following day. We couldn't scrounge up the cash we needed that night and our plot was put on hold.

Nothing else important happened that day. I finished school and went home and played with my guinea pig and I went to sleep. Thankfully, I'd been remembering to close my window.

Like I said: time will pass in odd ways during this story. You'll adjust eventually.

The following morning was much the same as ever. I had Reese's Puffs for breakfast. My parents had been short with each other that morning, which led to them being short with me, which led to me being in a pretty sullen mood by the time Clyde arrived in The Car to pick us all up.

He and Token were chatting away in the front seats. Tweek gently nudged me in the middle of the track we were listening to. I remember still, then, it was "Never Ending." Kaskade had released the album about a month prior and it was my first time hearing it.

"Any luck?" he murmured.

I had to think about it, but I assumed he was wondering if I'd had any luck procuring some cash. I had not, and I told him so.

Then, I noticed Clyde was giving us a look in the rear view, _that_ look, his concerned best friend look, and I gave Tweek a sharp jab with my elbow to keep him from replying. He made his usual little anxious squeaking noise, but he knew better than to say anything. We finished the Kaskade album and he put it to shuffle, and we nodded our heads while our two loser friends in the front sang along to Fall Out Boy and I basically wanted to bash my head into the seat in front of me.

Music played a very big part in all of this, so forgive me if I provide unnecessary details related to music. Music never seems irrelevant. It also helps me place the time period, if you can understand.

We briefly broke apart after reaching soon but came together again in English, and we didn't say much as we waited for the morning bell. The pledge was recited and Kenny still did not stand for it. He had done this for a little over two weeks now, but while everyone certainly noticed, no one seemed to mind, at least not enough to say anything about it anymore. No one else followed his lead, either; we all continued to stand.

Then the morning announcements began to roll, and Tweek leaned in close to me.

"Sold a kid a pinch before class started," he mumbled. "We're good to go. Tonight?"

I pretended I hadn't heard him. A lot of our talking in school involved neither of us looking at one another as we did it.

"Clyde wanted me to convince you not to go," I mumbled back.

Tweek made a guttural sound of alarm. "_Gah_, shit, you told him?"

"He asked," I replied simply.

"Damn it, Craig. Clyde doesn't need to know every time I want to tag something..." I heard him tapping his fingers irritably on the desk. It could have certainly been said that Clyde did not particularly care for Tweek, but Tweek liked Clyde; admired him even.

However, there _was_ one person whose opinion mattered more to Tweek than Clyde's. "What do you think?" he asked.

"Whether we should do it?" I clarified.

"Uh huh."

"I don't care. Clyde just thinks it's not a wise move with the bridge so new."

Tweek kicked the back of my seat, not loud enough to draw attention to us but enough so that I felt it. "Don't say where we're going," he hissed, sounding slightly panicked. "What if someone's listening?"

"Tweek, no one gives a fuck about us."

"They might-!"

"No, they don't," I said again. As I said, it was best to be firm and cold with him; his paranoia was irrational, so it was best to be irrational back. "No one is listening to us."

"_Hnggh_, well..." His fingernails were chewed to stumps, but his fingertips still continued to make an annoyingly soft tapping noise behind me. The announcements were almost over; we would have to make a decision soon. "I still really want to," he murmured. "I had a plan and everything; I know exactly what I'm going to paint."

"Wouldn't anywhere else do?" I asked. "Skeeter's old bar?"

"I really want the bridge," he insisted, and it was annoyingly close to a whine. He knew better than to whine at me; it would almost instantaneously piss me off and make me incapable of giving a single shit. So, predictably, it twisted the stick up my ass a bit and I lost patience with him.

"I sort of think you're being an idiot anyway. The park's not empty enough. Too many witnesses."

"We'll go at like 3 am or something; no one's ever around that late."

"Yeah, including me. Because unlike you, I sleep at 3 am, and unlike you, I don't get a hard-on for getting into trouble."

"We have off school tomorrow." It was true; we did. Teacher workday. And besides, it wouldn't be the first time I'd stayed up all night just to watch him paint.

"I just don't want trouble, that's all," I said bluntly. "And you can't promise me we won't get in trouble."

"Craig." He wasn't whining anymore. Sometimes Tweek's voice was reedy and high pitched and like a guitar string tightened practically to the point of snapping. Now it was so soft, barely a whisper, and it was very steady. It was one of the few times he was sure of himself. "I won't go if you won't go, but I really want you to come with me just to see it. I think you'll really like what I have planned."

If nothing else, I will admit it now; I was easily manipulated as a kid. I tried very hard not to make it seem like I cared about anyone, but I _did_ care about a lot of other things that _weren't_ people. So when Tweek's reasoning for me coming was to see the paint, not to help a friend, it weakened my resolve a bit.

I really liked his art. It was really nice, and the murals were sometimes astoundingly beautiful for as quickly as he did them. We hadn't gone painting for a while, and most of all, I was bored. Nice and boring was the ideal combination for my life, but every now and then, I liked just a little something to spice it up. Not too much; just a dash of excitement to hold me over for a few months.

If nothing else, I was curious. Tweek seemed really determined, and his resolve was not often as firm as it was now. Anything that got Tweek into that uncharacteristically confident mindset was worth looking into.

"Fine," I said. I heard him breathe in relief behind me. "You better have something spectacular planned."

"Stellar," he assured me, and he nervously chuckled to himself.

Here's the thing, too, that would later taunt me.

Clyde blamed me for enabling Tweek to do graffiti.

Kenny blamed me for enabling him to change.

Had I really enabled either of them? It felt more like they had manipulated me to go along with them. All I had ever wanted was to avoid trouble, but I always seemed to get involved.

Maybe I was addicted to trouble and _they_ enabled _me_, and I didn't really realize it. I just used them as excuses. I just held their paint brushes while they painted something for me to admire.

Tweek with his spray cans and Kenny with his signs; it would all only land me in trouble in the end.


	18. Part Two: Two Bad Kids

Chapter Text

Two Bad Kids

The way I keep describing myself, I think you've probably forgotten at this point that I was an incurable shithead when I was young. I've told you before that you aren't supposed to cheer for me or think that I'm admirable in any way, because I promise, I was not, and there's going to be ample enough evidence in this recollection to prove it.

So I may as well remind you before you get too comfortable with the delusion that I was just some kid with an undeserved bad reputation who never asked for any of the trouble I got myself in. Because every last thing that ever fucked up my life was entirely, completely my fault. I was a grade A shithead, and I was always finding some way to get myself into trouble. Don't forget that everything, _everything_, was my fault. Even Kenny.

Granted, we haven't quite gotten to Kenny yet. But we will; he's right up the road at this point, just waiting to jump in and ride along for the rest of the way. However, for the moment, Tweek and I are gonna be the ones driving this, and I promise, while the scenery has been pretty bland so far, we _are_ actually going somewhere. This is the sort of thing you should expect from a person whose entire life revolves around the boring and the mundane. I promise; like the bridge in the park, it will become more colorful in very short notice.

So let me explain the odd situation that we found ourselves in. We were two quiet, self-contained, anti-social, shy kids that never wanted anything to do with anything bad. We loathed conflict and abhorred trouble. We just wanted to be left to our own devices; we just wanted to be left alone. And somehow we wound up being bad kids.

Tweek and I had been gracing the town with a sizable dose of graffiti every couple of months since we turned 13.

Rather, Tweek graced it; I gave him the grace to do it.

He took mostly spray cans, but he had some brushes and a few small paint cans too. He mixed the color before the night came, because he always had some kind of idea. That was something else I liked about Tweek; the kid planned. The kid had some kind of organization to his chaos. Random, sporadic chaos just frustrated me, but he let his out in carefully measured increments, and the results were fascinating.

We'd hit just about every corner of town at some point, which was not a very great feat considering the size of our quaint little mountain town, but the point was that we were very persistent. Tweek painted trees and flowers and butterflies and landscapes and cityscapes and skylines and incredible, beautiful things over top the most derelict buildings, the ones that no one cared about, and while our graffiti was not exactly endorsed, we felt like no one ever tried very hard to stop us.

It's important to note that I say 'us,' even though I never actually painted with him. We considered it a collaborative partnership. Tweek would have never been able to paint everything he did by himself, he often told me, and as Clyde had said, I enabled him to do the dirty deed, and so I was just as guilty as he was.

Besides that, there were a few other things that made us less innocent than we'd have liked to claim. We both started smoking at a young age and we got each other hooked on it; one of us would quit, and then the other would keep going until the quitter started back up again. Those cancer sticks were sweet oxygen to me back in my teenage years.

There was also the weed, as I have mentioned, although he indulged in it more than I did. We weren't the type to sit around for days on end smoking blunts and marinating in an effluent fog, but we did smoke it, probably more frequently than we should have. More than once, we both went to school stoned after sitting awake all night. I can't say for certain whether anyone noticed, but we certainly hadn't bothered anyone, so I didn't see a problem with it.

There had been two incidents with alcohol, which had both ended with us just taking a few shots of whiskey in front of Stark's Pond and then just lying in the grass and talking about stars. Liquor wasn't really our thing.

You look at Tweek from a distance and think that he was a bad influence on me, but he really wasn't, no more than Kenny was anyway, and no more than I was a bad influence on him. All of these bad things we did, we did together.

Tweek never bothered anyone that didn't have it coming to them, and even then, he would rather stay out of it. If he sat in his room and listened to techno and partook in recreational marijuana while he studied for a test, then for fuck's sake, was that really any trouble?

After school that day, we stopped by the hardware store to pick up the colors we were missing. It was mostly blues that Tweek wanted that night, blues and a little purple, and I helped carry all of them to check out. I felt pretty conspicuous just carrying armfuls of spray paint, but no one said anything. The cashier checked us out, no questions, and he even said, "Have a good day, sirs," when he handed Tweek the receipt. Here these two bad kids were buying spray paint for their night of mischief making and this poor misguided soul was calling us "sirs." What a world.

Tweek just threw the receipt in one of the bags, and then began to rifle through them to assure himself that he hadn't forgotten anything. There were three, each one containing about five or six cans, and there would be more back at his house.

On one hand it was kind of silly to me for him to buy so many dark colors. Tweek didn't usually paint with anything dark; for one, it was harder to see, and for another, he didn't like them. Dark colors were not Tweek's style; obnoxious bursts of color were.

"Why the hell do you need like six shades just of purple?" I asked.

He cracked a weak smile. "You'll see," he promised slyly.

There was enough cash left over to pick up some burgers on the way home. We took the food to go in bags and sat outside on the main street, our shoes resting a few feet away from cars that sped by with no regard for us at all. The plastic bags full of spray paint lounged around us, and we shoveled fast food and fries in our mouths like it was going out of style. Neither of us were big eaters, usually, but there was nothing quite so satisfying as ingesting an entire day's worth of calories in one go. God bless America.

"Did you tell Clyde or Token?" he asked as he was picking into his fries, dabbing them into a very precise amount of ketchup, (wiping them off on a napkin if he happened to take too much) and then throwing them into his mouth.

"About tonight?" I asked. "Nope. I don't plan to, either. Not until it's done."

"I'll say you tried to stop me," he offered. "I'll tell them I totally forced you into it and you didn't want to go along with it at all."

"Yeah, sure. Like anyone is going to believe that you forced me to do anything."

"Hey," he pouted, giving me a good shove with his free hand. I shoved him back, There wasn't that friendly aura of playfulness around either of us, but it was all in good fun, just the same, and we knew that.

"It shouldn't take more than two hours," he continued. "It's not really d-detail work, so I won't have to spend a lot of time fretting over precision or anything."

"Alright." The truth was, I didn't care about the details; I just wanted to see the result.

"Thanks again, man," he said, real sincere like. "I really couldn't do it without you, and I j-just really appreciate you coming to support me."

He was getting all wishy-washy, and I hated that. So in response, I dabbed my finger in some of the ketchup and poked him in the nose with it. This would ordinarily result in most people being alarmed for about a second and then either laughing or indignantly smearing ketchup back on the offender. Not Tweek; it startled him enough that he he nearly fall backwards, only narrowly avoiding it because he flailed to keep himself upright and knocked over his soda, all the while making that grinding noise in his throat. He overreacted sometimes. I just continued eating, placidly.

Later, after we'd disposed of our trash and we were about to break it off to head in our separate directions, he mentioned something.

"I'm actually thinking of going at like one," he told me before we split.

"I thought you didn't think it would take you that long?" I replied.

"It won't, but it might be daybreak by the time I finish. I want it to still be d-dark out; I have a reason for it, I promise."

"Fine with me." I thought one am was just as asinine as three am, but if it made him feel better, whatever.

"I'll m-meet you at the usual place?"

"Yup. In the mean time, I'll be sleeping."

"'Kay."

I touched knuckles with him to bid farewell, and he left, carrying the plastic bags on his own while I left to slumber away in my attic.


	19. Part Two: The Midnight Deception

The Midnight Deception

Fat, sodium, and sugar was not enough to keep me awake. As soon as I got home, and went straight up to the attic, and I crashed on my mattress for a good five or six hours.

Tweek and I shared one common flaw that made us very compatible as friends when we otherwise might have annoyed each other to the point of impossibility. As previously mentioned, Tweek was an insomniac, and he rarely got more than two or three hours of sleep a night. Sometimes he just wouldn't sleep at all. Every so often he would crash and just pass out for seventeen or eighteen hours, but for the most part, sleep eluded the kid.

I was not an insomniac, but I never slept very well. I didn't know what to blame my sleeplessness on; whether it was legitimate insomnia or whether I just thought too damn much to sleep. Regardless of the cause, I rarely managed more than four or five hours a night. A solid seven was a miracle.

Tweek and I would spend many of our sleepless nights together, and while I didn't really consider him my best friend, I think it was this that made me closer to him than most of my other friends. Maybe that was why he'd caught on so much quicker than I had, and he'd tried so hard to get me out before it was too late. Maybe that was why he was long gone by the time I really needed him.

Anyway, that's not important now; I'm sorry to interject. I've been getting better about it though, haven't I?

I crashed on my mattress for a few hours. I hadn't slept well the night before and catching up a little did me some good. It improved my mood significantly, anyway.

When I rolled myself awake, it was a little after midnight. It was dark and it was cold, but my heater was still diligently slogging along. After a few minutes of hiding in my blankets for warmth and wondering to myself why I humored a kid who wanted to spend the night outside in the cold painting a bridge, I finally crawled out of bed.

I'd fallen asleep in my school clothes, but I added a sweatshirt on top of that and doubled up on socks. Again, I'd be grabbing my jacket on my way out the door. I anticipated it being very cold out, possibly single digits this time of night, if not less, and I wasn't disappointed. When I opened my window, I could practically touch the cold hanging in the air. I was only lucky that the wind wasn't blowing directly inside, otherwise I might have called Tweek then and there and told him I wasn't having it.

I still had a few minutes before I needed to think about heading downstairs to meet Tweek, so I figured I'd take a smoke real quick while I could still enjoy it. Having a cigarette inside where it was comparatively nice and warm would be a lot better than bracing against the wind just to keep the damn thing lit.

I often did this after moving to the attic. It was why I sometimes woke up with snow on me. I didn't want to outright smoke inside, like on my bed or something, or for it to get in the ventilation somehow and tip off my parents. As long as the window was open and I blew the smoke outside and rested my hand on the window ledge, it nearly impossible to tell I'd been smoking at all.

As integral as this vice was for my teenaged self, I stopped smoking in my late twenties, and it seems silly to me now that I went to such great pains to do it so frequently back then. These days, I get a whiff of cigarette smoke and it almost makes me gag. I wonder why exactly I had even bothered as a teenager, but the reasoning was simple at the time: it was something to do.

As I smoked, I heard Spot nosing around in his cage. While it did no harm to know that my favorite pet was awake, the bigger problem was that I didn't know if my parents were still awake. The attic provided both an advantage and a disadvantage being so far away from everyone, because while I was never bothered by my family's noise, I could also never be warned by it. So, as I wantonly flicked the ash off into the frosty grass below, I plotted my escape.

Finally, almost half past midnight, I finished my cigarette and flicked it out my window. Then I took care to close it, (I didn't know if we were expecting more snow or not; I didn't want to risk it either way) and I grabbed my boots. I would wait to put them on for now; I didn't want to make much noise tramping around the house in my boots at midnight.

After I observed from my trapdoor for a few minutes, listening attentively, I dangled through and then lifted myself down as softly as I could. I hit the ground with a soft, muffled 'THUMP,' and then pulled the door shut behind me. Then, I hurried down the hall as quickly as I dared, passing my parents' and my sister's room in the process, and then I very slowly descended the stairs until I got about halfway. Then I froze.

The television was still on in the living room.

This didn't necessarily mean anything. My parents left the TV on sometimes. It was a total waste of money, but it didn't have to mean anything.

I debated with myself over completing the descent or just going back to my room, and in the end I decided to risk it. I gingerly took each step until I reached the bottom, and of course, I wound up not being so lucky.

"Who's there?" I heard my mother call hesitantly from the living room. The couch creaked as she readjusted, or else got off of it completely.

I called back, almost in a whisper, "Just me, Mom."

"Oh, hi Craig." She sounded distracted as she replied, but she didn't seem distressed by my being there. I heard the couch creak again.

I couldn't just walk out the front door with her sitting there, so I detoured the kitchen, hiding my boots inside a cabinet for now just in case. Then I opened the fridge and stared blankly at the shelves, many of which were half-empty. I hoped she would think I was browsing for a snack and leave me alone. Instead, she opted to leave her late night talk show and do the exact opposite; keep me company.

"What're you doing up so late?" she asked, leaning up against the doorway. She was only wearing a fluffy pink bathrobe, one that was ill-fitting and revealed more of her than I thought should be appropriate, but of course, I wasn't about to say any of that.

"Couldn't sleep, got hungry." At a loss, I decided I should act along with the lie. I grabbed the milk from the top shelf and carried it with me to the pantry, where I then grabbed my box of Reese's Puffs. I brought them both to the counter and went about preparing my cereal.

"You shouldn't eat this late sweetie; you'll get funny dreams."

"I'm hungry," I said again, as though restating this fact might in itself act as a rational argument.

She just sighed. "Oh well, I guess you did miss dinner."

"Yup," I replied. It turned out that I was actually hungry; I'd intended to pour just a little bit of cereal to justify being downstairs this late, but I end up pouring almost as much as I ate for breakfast. I was about to take the bowl to the table when I heard her make a sharp noise at me.

"Put the milk away," she scolded. "It'll go bad if you leave it out."

Neglecting to mention that it was pretty cold in the house as it was and that the milk would not go bad by being outside the fridge for ten minutes, I just did as I was told and put the jug away, and the box of cereal too, just in case. My mom sometimes had those days where everything got on her nerves, and especially since she could at any time demand that I walked my happy ass back upstairs and ruin everything, I was determined to placate her long enough to get her off my back.

Some kids might have relished the excuse to not have to leave the comfort of a warm home into a dark winter night to perform a number of illicit activities, but that was not me. I was determined to get away, so I would, one way or another. I just didn't like the idea of that way ending up with me having to go down what was technically a third story window.

"Have things been okay at school?" she asked. It was midnight and my mother wanted to ask me _mom stuff. _

"Yep," I replied. After I'd fallen into one of the chairs at the table and brought my cereal down in front of me, I pulled out my phone (back then, it was one of those old flip phones, the ones with a miniscule screen in black and white; it was old even then, I imagine it must sound ancient now) and I typed out a message to Tweek to explain my predicament.

_Mom caught me gonna keep tryin will b l8_

Not that I was trying very hard to escape. I had no intentions of mistakenly doing or saying anything that would potentially frustrate my mother. So instead, demurely, I ate Reese's Puffs.

"Who'ya texting this late, hun?" She said it with strained politeness; my mom didn't like being ignored in favor of technology, which as you can imagine brought quite some distance between us in January when I obtained my iPhone.

"Tweek," I said instantly, with no hesitation.

She made a clicking noise with her tongue. "Poor boy; does he still have trouble sleeping?"

"Uh huh."

"Every night?"

"Yeah. Insomnia, remember?"

She tsked. "You should tell him to try Chamomile tea and a hot bath. That always puts me right out."

_'If only you'd go right out right now,_ ' I remember thinking. "He's got a sleeping disorder Mom; people like that don't just fall asleep that easily."

"Well, aren't there medications for that kind of thing? Maybe he should try that."

"He doesn't need any more pills," I said promptly.

"But if it's prescribed by a doctor-"

"No." I'd actually stopped eating my cereal to look directly at her as I spoke, and I spoke carefully, in case she could somehow misunderstand me. "He doesn't need more pills."

"Alright, hun."

Tweek had anxiety so he had anxiety medication, and he also had ADHD so he had medication for that, and pills to stop nausea because the anxiety meds made him sick and pills to wake him up if the anxiety pills made him too drowsy and just pills; fucking pills everywhere.

He didn't take them.

Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes he had to, like the Ritalin on test days. But most of the time he didn't. He hated pills. He hated people needing to regulate themselves with medication instead of just learning to cope with their issues.

I liked him for that. Talk whatever shit you want about him for smoking weed or doing graffiti, but at least acknowledge that.

"Are things going well with the rest of your friends?" She kept asking these questions as though she were struggling to find something, anything, that might get me to talk to her. I realize that now; I realize now that I was never very close with my mom. Then again, I wasn't really close with anyone, really. It wasn't that I excluded her in particular; I was just damn cold to everyone, and you'll notice it just as prominently with other people I care about.

"Yep."

"How's Clyde's dad hanging in there?"

"Fine."

"Anything new going on in the pet store?"

"Nope." Then I thought about it, and I found something, at least, to say. "Some of the fish we got in last week came in with ich."

"Oh? What's that?"

"It's a contagious disease fish get. It's curable, but it's pretty bad and it spreads right quick. Lost half our stock and everyone's flippin' shit."

"Language!" she tutted.

I gave her a nice vexed expression for her trouble. Tom Tucker could invent new ways to say 'fuck' on a daily basis and she could match him any day of the week and I'd been cussing since I was six and I _still_ couldn't say 'shit' around my mother. If anyone wanted to crow about a pot and a kettle! "Mom, I'm sixteen."

"And you're not stupid, sonny. You have a good vocabulary; put it to use."

I continued to give her a look of pure weariness and exasperation. "Apoplectic," I said, not even bothering to hide the impending smart-ass in my tone. "Is that a big enough word?"

She huffed a little to herself. To be honest, I'm not sure she knew what the word meant. "Much better."

I think she finally figured out after that that she had worn out her welcome with me. I wasn't quite done with my cereal before she finally returned to the living room and shut off the television, only stopping by the kitchen again to wish me sweet dreams.

"I know you don't have school tomorrow, but don't stay up too late," she warned.

"Yes Ma'am," I answered smartly. "I'll go right back to bed after this."

At first, the deception didn't appear to work on her. She gave me the stink eye, pursing her lips, not quite buying it. It took a healthy dose of false sincerity to bring her around.

"I promise Mom, I'll be knocked out before you know it. You can even come check on me if you want; you'll find me just lying there and drooling."

I knew she wouldn't check on me. For one, she couldn't climb up discreetly enough not to wake me, and I knew she knew this. For another, I was Craig Tucker, and I never lied, remember?

So she merely accepted it. "Good," she said. "Night, sweetie."

"Night," I replied.

I ate my cereal with as much pain-staking slowness as humanly possible, getting down to eating one small puff at a time to allow her all the time in the world to dawdle up stairs and finally open her door. I waited, listening intently, waiting, just waiting. It didn't seem like she would be coming down again. She moved around a bit upstairs, I could hear it, but then, all was quiet.

As silently as I could, I collected my bowl and spoon and left them in the sink to soak. I tied up my boots, still keeping an ear out as I knotted the laces, and then grabbed my coat. When I opened the front door, I did it tortuously slow, barely an inch at a time, until I finally had it just wide enough to slide through.

I was out. It was time to paint.


	20. Part Two: The Bridge of Stars

The Bridge of Stars

I found Tweek at the edge of our street, and he was shivering under the pale lamplight. He had a thick scarf around his neck and his usual oversized hoodie around the rest of him. Even though his hood was up, his face was aimed into the shadows. Unlike me, Tweek was one of those guys unusually well adapted to the cold, and it was typical of him to under dress. He often wore plain shirts when everyone else was in their winter garb. But even he was trembling tonight with the cold, biting wind.

He perked up when he heard my footsteps crunching in the snow, and when he turned to face me, the low light cast shadows like snow drifts over his face. But he didn't look nervous or scared; for once, Tweek was, outwardly, calm.

"Hey man," he greeted. Even his voice shivered.

"Hey," I greeted back.

As I got closer, I realized he had a cigarette in his fingers; he wore black gloves, but the tips were bare to allow him more control over the nozzles. He brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled, and the little cinders on the end glowed orange-red. With his opposite hand, he was holding onto a small, faded stepladder resting on his shoulder, and he also wore a low-hanging backpack.

As I came up beside him, I excused myself. "Sorry it took so long. My mom intercepted me on the way out. It took a while to shut her up and get her to leave me alone."

"It's cool, I figured," he said. "I'm just glad you didn't b-bail on me. It's a shitty night."

"I wouldn't bail on you." I said it impatiently, like I had half a mind to be offended that he'd even insinuated it, despite the fact that I'd considered doing it less than an hour ago.

As he slowly released the smoke, he shuffled from foot to foot, probably to regain a little feeling in them. I had thick winter boots; he had ratty sneakers. His family could afford better, but he preferred those shoes to his boots on nights like this. Easier to run in, he said. Not that we'd ever had to run before. Still, I was sure he was cold. I wondered how long he'd been standing there.

Tweek shrugged the stepladder off of his shoulder and offered it to me. Wordlessly, I took it. He'd carry the bag that was probably stuffed with all the goodies; I'd carry the ladder. He'd carry the guilt; I'd carry the means. That was how it was.

It was probably almost one, and where we lived back then, people didn't usually go gallivanting around the city at one in the morning. Nonetheless, we are dealing with Tweek Tweak, and he was a very paranoid soul.

"We should hurry and get there before anyone sees us," he told me. He took a last drag on the cigarette and then threw it in the snow, crushing the powder over it. 

"'kay," I agreed.

There were two parks in South Park; a kiddie park with a playground and a basketball court and whatever else children needed to occupy themselves for a few hours, and an ambient park not so far from Stark's Pond, just outside of the main part of town. It was more secluded, lots of foliage, very pretty. Nice place to talk a walk or feed the birds or just get away from it all. It was a good trek away from our street, but not so far; half an hour maybe at a brisk walk. Nothing in South Park was a very long walk from anything else in town; you could probably clear the whole damn thing in forty-five if you weren't dawdling.

The wind did its best to deter us from getting there, but we did not heed it; we simply put our heads down and trudged through it. After a while we picked up a light jog, which was probably easier for him with his backpack than it was for me with the ladder over my back, but I dealt with it. The truth is that I am not really an athletic person in general, and running was not a fine point of mine in any condition, warm or cold or unburdened or not. But I knew it wouldn't take long, so I sucked it up, and while Tweek pulled ahead of me sometimes, I kept up. If nothing else, it would get us to the creek faster.

We didn't do a lot of talking, mostly because Tweek was paranoid about someone hearing us somehow, and also because we didn't really have anything to talk about. As I have said before, silence between friends is not a bad thing.

When we reached the outskirts of city life, we slowed down, panting through our noses and sniffling to avoid drawing the icy air into our chests. I swapped hands for the ladder and Tweek shrugged around the weight of the backpack, and, with only the panting breaking our mutual silence, we made our way towards the bridge.

Maybe we'd been running with the wind and hadn't noticed, but when we started walking again, it felt like it had picked up. It screeched loudly at us as we stepped cautiously over the stone path, and bracing against it only did so much. My winter coat was a windbreaker on the outside and I was still freezing; I could only imagine how bad it must have been for Tweek in only a hoodie and whatever he had on underneath. I couldn't tell if he was twitching or shivering anymore, but he didn't complain, whatever he felt, and so I didn't complain either. Even I knew better than to point out the obvious this time. We both knew it was as shitty night to go painting.

When we came upon the bridge, I felt like Tweek had already been there to make preparations. There was a large wooden plank thrown over the water, although to note, the creek itself was small, only a few feet across at its widest point; I could have probably laid over the water on my hands and tip-toes had I stretched from edge to edge. But the plank provided a sturdy surface upon which to put the stepladder.

The bank surrounding it was rather steep, and the shore of the creek continued for a few feet before actually beginning to incline, resulting in probably eleven or twelve feet worth of bridge length. The bridge itself was probably only about five feet in height, although given the steepness of the bank it was probably a good eight feet or so from the ground to the top. Thus, the stepladder.

Tweek and I got to the edge and then slid down the bank, skidding to a stop well before reaching the water. Despite the cold, it continued to flow sluggishly, with only little suggestions of ice flowing by on the surface. As if we'd discussed it beforehand, we immediately backed up against the bridge for shelter from the wind, and we were unsurprised to see little acts of vandalism already on the walls. Most were just tags, some just names, and there was a little etching done with some sharp object or another. Nothing very impressive. Tweek's was gonna show 'em all up, I thought.

"Jesus Christ man," he ground out. He sounded like someone had hold of his neck again, and I didn't think it was too metaphorical to say that it was the wind. "It's pretty cold, huh?"

"No shit." I laid down the stepladder and hunched up, crossing my arms over my chest and shivering shamelessly into my coat. I had gloves in my pocket that I had delayed putting on, but I reached eagerly for them now, my fingers stiff and quivering as they slipped inside, and once securely hidden away, they didn't feel all that much better.

Meanwhile, Tweek had thrown the backpack off of his shoulders and when he had it on the ground, he unzipped it, and he began meticulously unpacking it with his quavering hands. He pulled out two or three plastic bags full of cans, and one plastic bag wrapped around something I presumed to be his special mix that night, for detail painting rather than spraying. The bags looked like the ones we'd gotten that day from Home Depot; he'd probably just stuffed everything in the bookbag when he'd gotten home.

"Before you get all into it, a cigarette would be nice," I suggested.

It was too late; Tweek was already well into it. Without acknowledging me, he pulled a pack and a lighter out of his hoodie pocket, and he laid them down behind him. Then he went back to unpacking his wares, laying out each can by color and then looking thoughtfully at them.

Ordinarily I would have stood back to observe his process from start to finish, but when he began grabbing cans and the stepladder and headed back out into the open, I helped myself to his pack and leaned against the bridge and ignored him. It was going to be a long night; I figured I may as well enjoy a cigarette or two.

I ate up time as well as I could. I smoked a pretty impressive chunk out of his pack, I threw pebbles and stones into the water, and I closed my eyes and I listened to the creek bubbling by in beside me. Overhead, I could hear the spray cans hissing and the clickity-clack inside aluminum as he shook them, and every now and then a can would just plop to the ground and I'd hear a POP as he opened the cap of another one. Now and then, he'd step down, move the ladder a few inches over, and then climb back up again.

Overall, it was pretty boring work, although I imagine I had it a lot easier than he did. The bridge probably killed most of the wind, but it can't have been a pleasant ordeal from where Tweek was standing.

After a while, he called down to me: "Craig?"

"I'm still here," I called back. I figured that was all he wanted; he just wanted to know that I was there. My hunch had been right; he didn't ask me for anything, he just resumed spraying.

It was probably well after an hour when I finally decided to emerge from the bridge's protection. The wind had died down, but Tweek was still shivering, his arm still stiffly holding him against the stone while the other tiredly shook can after can and held down the nozzle.

"You want me to pass you a smoke up there?" I asked.

Tweek shook his head; the scarf was pulled up over his face, either to protect him from the cold or the fumes. "What if it caught the paint on fire?" he asked.

I wanted to be snarky and tell him that would do us a lot of good if it did; it was fuckin' cold and a fire would have been welcome. Instead, given that he was probably more vulnerable to sarcasm than usual, I opted to be nice. "It wouldn't catch fire, Tweek."

He resolutely shook his head, already making his decision, and he went back to spraying.

It was a very unusual project he had tonight, I was noticed. I looked all up and down the bridge, but I couldn't see much; my eyes had adjusted to the dark pretty good by that point, but it was still difficult to see, mostly because Tweek's work had been all dark so far. Though, to be frank, he could probably see it better than me. He had unusually good night vision.

He was clearly painting some sort of backdrop for whatever the proper project was going to be; it was purple and blue, mostly, with some solid black in some places, and it all blended together differently, some splotches more blue and some more purple than others. It was very pretty. But I had no idea what it was. A sky, maybe, I thought.

Whichever sky it was, it wasn't the one we were currently standing under; overhead, the sky was utterly suffocating with clouds. They were probably stuffed to the gills with more snow to drop over the town, and I'm sure both of us were praying that they would hold off just long enough for him to finish. It hadn't snowed for almost three days, and South Park was overdue.

His stiff arm retracted from the stone and dived into his hoodie, shivering, and at first I thought he was trying to warm his hands. Then he pulled out his phone, and I thought how odd it was that he would be stopping to take a break to play on it at a time like this. Then I realized, no, he was actually using his phone for reference. Unlike me, he had one of those phones that wasn't a piece of shit, one that displayed pictures pretty good, and every now and then he would stop, reach into his pocket, stare at it, and then go back to painting.

Since he wasn't quite done yet, I figured I should do what I'd come here for and keep a look out. I climbed up out of the bank and did a little walking around the area, crossing over the bridge and the surrounding area and being sure to occupy myself for long enough for Tweek to be satisfied. When I returned, he checked in with me as though my reconnaissance may have resulted in vital situational awareness. "Anything?" he asked.

"Not a soul," I told him. He seemed very pleased and continued with his work, clearly a lot happier than before.

It was a long time before Tweek was done with the backdrop, longer than I really expected, and when he climbed down off of the stepladder, he backed against the bridge again and sat down, spreading his legs out and stretching his back. He groaned tiredly as he stretched, cracking his neck this way and that, and then he went for the cigarettes.

I joined him, plopping down beside him and picking a cig myself. I said, "So what's it gonna be tonight? I can't tell yet; it's all dark."

"I told you before," Tweek said. He had a nervous little smile on his face while his lips clamped down on the cigarette; I could see it in the tiny flame of the lighter, amplified by the hand shielding it. "It's stellar."

"A night sky," I guessed. "Stars."

He finished lighting his cigarette, and when his hands were free, he spread them out in front of him, slowly. "Outer space," he declared, sounding very happy with himself.

"Bold," I commented. I couldn't imagine how someone expected to paint a convincing mural of space with spray cans.

"It's not gonna be super realistic, it's gonna be kinda abstract."

"Okay," I said. I didn't know much about painting.

"Just d-don't worry about it. It's gonna be great. And wait until you see what I have ready for the end."

Tweek continued. I bundled up as near to the bridge as I could, continuing to shiver and continuing to make my rounds around the area every ten minutes or so, just to do something. The wind was starting to die down, and thankfully it hadn't started snowing yet, but it was still plenty cold, and the night was dragging on.

It was probably about twenty til three that Tweek finally threw down his spray paint for the last time with a relieved sigh. Then he climbed down and took what I presumed to be his mix, which turned out to be a can and several brushes full of a thick, milky goop.

"Just white?" I said, skeptically.

"Nope!" Sounding way too plucky for such a shitty night, he climbed right back up the stepladder, and using an excruciatingly tiny brush, he began to dot. And he made stars.

The whole thing began to come together. There was a great galaxy adorned with little stars all around and even a distant planet soaked into the stone. The stars were the astounding part; though he'd started them last and they were surely the most tedious part of the whole process, the whole thing just began to light up, and he was very patient, very delicate, not allowing a single spot to drip away from its intended place. He instinctively seemed to know where next to put the brush, and he never put too much or too little or too close or too far; it was surreal seeing it all simply materialize in front of him, like some kind of magic. Standing from a distance, especially, it was probably one of the breathtaking murals I'd seen him do over the years.

Not everything on the bridge that night was astronomical. About ten to three, Tweek replaced his brushes with a can of spray paint, an off-white, and began to spray over a few parts of the mural, coating the galaxy and the planet and just giving everything a nice, subtle highlight, careful not to make it too thick.

Then, he crawled down from the stepladder, for the last time, and he looked the bridge up and down. I thought maybe he was admiring his work, but then he moved a little further away, to a blank spot of the canvas. He didn't need the stepladder; he painted nearer to the bottom, using his tip-toes when needed, and he very slowly, very neatly began to spray out a few words. They were in the usual sort of bold, bubbly writing you normally see in graffiti, and they were rather large, so much that Tweek needed to cross the plank a little to finish writing them.

As he completed each one, he would shift a few inches to the right, and begin spelling out the next, and all of them nearly perfectly aligned as though he were using some sort of invisible ruler to mark them just right. His eye for detail was astonishing, and despite the cold and his nerves, I never saw him shake once.

After a few minutes of curious staring, I eventually saw the words now sinking into the stone forever: PEACE, LOVE, UNITY, RESPECT

"Odd choice of words," I commented.

"It's not random or anything, it's PLUR," he mumbled in explanation. He may as well have told me he'd just thought them up on the spot; I had never heard of PLUR before, and at the time it didn't even occur to me to ask. I just assumed it was one of his many eccentricities.

Tweek was shaking the spray can and he seemed to be contemplating over the four letters, side-stepping back and fourth. The 'A' in 'Peace' was replaced with a peace sign, I noticed. Maybe he was thinking of adding cute additions to the rest of them.

"It's a shame, though," I said. "You can't really see the stars that well. I guess maybe you'll see them better in the daytime."

Tweek glanced over his shoulder with a devious little smirk. "Now that you mention it..."

He hopped off of the plank, throwing his can to the ground for now and digging through his backpack. Oddly enough, he emerged with four industrial sized flashlights in his arms.

"What are those for?" I asked.

"Come g-grab some and I'll show you."

I took two, and Tweek flicked on his two. "Just shine them on the paint, just like this-" He began to wave the light over the paint. I was still skeptical, but I did as he asked, holding the light in place for a few seconds and then waving it over to another spot.

It wasn't long before I realized what the purpose was; the detail paint for the stars was absorbing the light. It was glow-in-the-dark. In a minute or two, the mural was speckled with tiny little pinpricks of light, and the whole galaxy was shining on that bridge.

We stepped back and flicked off our flashlights, and as our eyes readjusted to the darkness, the stars lit up the night.

"Wow," I muttered. For as simple as it was, I thought it was very well done. The effect was perfect. Flawless, really. I was impressed and awestruck, and all I could really say was that simple 'wow.' It wasn't nearly enough.

You might think I am a very stoic personality, and it's true that oftentimes I am, but as I have said before, I am not too callous to be unappreciative of beauty.

"Yeah," Tweek agreed. As I stood and admired the mural, he'd begun to move around the area, picking up armfuls of spray paint cans plopping them in piles, shoving a few now and then into the plastic bags. He was clearing up.

"Are you done?" I asked. I started helping him collect the cans; there were a lot more than I realized.

"Mhmm, maybe...I'm not sure." He wrapped up his glow paint, carefully replacing it in the backpack. "I think I still wanna play with it more..."

Then, in the distance, like a crack of thunder, we heard a car door slam. Twice, consecutively.

The first one made us freeze, and we looked at each other, stone solid, both of us staring with that wide-eyed deer in the headlights kinda look. On the second one, we scattered, like a couple birds in response to a gunshot. Flight was the only thing on my mind, but him?

"Get the cans!" he hissed.

"Leave the fucking cans!"

"Fingerprints!" he insisted. His voice was trembling with fear; I could hear it.

"Fuck fingerprints, you paranoid fuck-!"

He obeyed me and settled for throwing the backpack over his shoulders. We both took off at the same time, making a rush for the bank to climb over it. Tweek's flexible sneakers took the climb easily, but my boots did not. I tripped, and I fell back onto the shore as Tweek scrambled up top.

He spun back around immediately, and I knew before he even completed his turn that he was about to dive back in to help me up. I can appreciate this being a noble reaction, but in a time of crisis it was nothing short of moronic.

"MOVE IT ASSHOLE!" I berated him as loudly as I dared. For a split second, he was uncertain what to do, frozen with indecision, and I hissed at him again. "I'm FINE, fucking RUN!"

He turned tail and got out. I heard the backpack steadily thumping against his back as he fled.

It felt like an eternity since I'd fallen, but it was probably only a few seconds in the time it took me to fall, tell Tweek off, and then get back up again. I could barely get to my feet in time before I was lunging forward, climbing up on my hands and knees, and as soon as I got to the top, I started sprinting. Tweek had gotten far enough to where I couldn't see him in the dark anymore, but I probably wasn't too far behind him. I'd probably be able to catch back up to him in a minute or two, unless he'd been freaked enough to run the whole damn way home, which I didn't doubt.

Unfortunately, I didn't get that far. From behind me, headlights popped on. I didn't know if they'd caught me, but I knew they were close, too fucking close, and I dove down and crawled against the first bush I could. I gulped for air and trembled beside the bush and I waited.


	21. Part Two: The Symbol

The Symbol that Changed Everything

In 1958, a British man named Gerald Holtom created a symbol. He hadn't been asked to or told to or paid to do it, and when he did it, he had no idea that it would later cross the Atlantic and from there, burst into every direction as an international sign of peace. Or, if you prefer it, a peace sign.

A lot of people in the States don't realize that we did not invent the peace sign. Frankly I'd argue that most of us don't really care. I didn't. Americans like to think that we've invented most everything of importance, and if we didn't invent it, then surely we popularized it. That was our way of thinking. I say this with a sort of bitter endearment, not criticism.

Most people don't even care that it was Mr. Holtom who invented the thing; many instead mistakenly attribute it to Bertrand Russell, who was very important in his own right but who did not invent the peace sign. You know, in fact I'd say most people don't care who invented it at all. It may as well have just spontaneously burst into being for all anyone else cared.

Represented by a circle and a sort of upside down sparrow track, or what was famously referred to as, "the track of the great American chicken" in the 70's, (our egocentricity will never cease to amaze me) it is composed of two superimposed semaphore signals, (like sign language but for a distance and with flags) that represent the letters 'N' and 'D'. These letters stood for nuclear disarmament. Nuclear disarmament was a recent thing then, in the 50's, but then again we had only just discovered the atomic bomb in the 40's.

It's kinda funny to me that the peace sign would later become so prevalent in American culture when it came about almost directly as a result of the Manhattan Project. That, I know, is irony. Take note, Alanis.

Two years later, the peace sign was introduced to the United States, (by one Bayard Rustin, for the record, but no one really cares about him either) but it wouldn't be until the late sixties, when we were in Vietnam, that it really started catching on. That people started to equate what was supposed to be a symbol of peace with hippies and yuppies and a bunch of punks with no credibility.

There was no symbol to represent the discontent of the American people after the 9/11 attacks. The "War on Terrorism," it was called, because by then we were in so many countries that we couldn't just narrow it down to a single war. We couldn't call it the Vietnam War or the Persian Gulf War. It was just a never-ending ever-spreading virulent war across the Middle East that would eventually spread, as Clyde had predicted, to Africa and beyond. It was just war. The War. It would be for a long time.

The very name suggested that you shouldn't oppose it. It's a war on terrorism, not a war on Iraq or Afghanistan. You can't oppose a war on _terrorism_, for God's sake, what sense does that make? Did you _want_ the terrorists to come back?

This was all unimportant to me that night. That night I was freezing cold, and it was dark, and I was hiding for my life. I was far too terrified about being discovered by the police to worry about something thousands of miles away from me, or about a symbol that meant nothing to me.

I remember thinking that I was glad Tweek had gotten away. You can credit me for that much selflessness if you like. I admit that later I would have been pretty livid had I been the one caught for it if he got off scot free, but I was glad.

I tried to breathe as shallowly as possible, not only to avoid drawing attention to myself with my ragged panting, but to also cull the tell-tale puffs of breath escaping from my lips. I didn't know if someone out there could see me, crouching down as I was and in the dark on top of that. My colors were certainly dark enough to blend into the shadows, and I had my hood up, hiding my face, but one good sweep of a flashlight would be sufficient enough to reveal me.

I considered just making a run for it. I didn't need to outrun a police car; just get ahead enough to find more adequate cover. By the time the cop got back his vehicle, I might already be long gone. The odds of me getting away into the darkness were probably a lot better than me just being a sitting duck.

I mean, fuck, I didn't even know if it was a cop. South Park was a tiny town with nothing to do and there was no school tomorrow; it might have just be some bum kids going to hide somewhere secluded so they could huff paint or something.

Of course, it wasn't. I guess I just had a feeling, or else I was just expecting the worst. I guess being around Tweek does that to you.

I heard two voices just beyond the bridge, and I braced myself. I would need to be fast and keep my head down. They wouldn't expect it. It was run for it now or wait to be discovered.

But just as I was about to push off, I realized a very hard fact: the bags. The Home Depot bags were still lying around the bridge. Did they have the receipt in them still? If they did, they would know which store location they'd been bought at, and at what time. Sure we'd paid with cash but what if there was security footage? In a small town most everyone knew everyone else, and Tweek and I weren't exactly indistinct kids. Our cops weren't the smartest of the bunch, but they could add two and two together.

Not to mention, Tweek's earlier protest was starting to hammer into my head. There probably _were_ fingerprints all over the cans. We were both wearing fingerless gloves. That meant hard evidence. All of a sudden, it WASN'T paranoid; it was totally within reason.

This all passed through my mind in a flash. I was frozen with indecision for several long seconds, and in the end, I settled back down in my hiding place. I couldn't leave the bags there. Maybe it was a long shot, maybe I had absorbed a bit too much paranoia from Tweek, but I couldn't afford to go down for this. Not over a few plastic bags and some spray paint. I would wait for an opportunity to make a dash for the bags and then I'd hightail it out of there.

So I shivered by the bush and focused on my breathing. Low and slow. Soft and slight. Absently, though I'd never been a very religious person, I began reciting prayers to God for him to somehow, someway, divert their attention away from the bridge. I aggressively pretended that as long as I willed for it to happen enough, I would not be caught. What else could I have done? All I could do was sit there. I had plenty of time to think.

I'd just started figuring that maybe I could make a run for the bags and then run for freedom when I realized that the voices had stopped. I swallowed my exhale and held my breath, waiting. As anticipated, there were a few sweeping motions of a flashlight, none of which caught me. I could hear their crisp steps on the frozen grass, and then a low, gruff voice leaped out from the darkness.

"See? There's no one here," someone growled. "It's too damn cold for anyone to be out tonight, they probably changed their minds when they stepped outside."

"Iffit's all the same, we better check the bridge," someone replied. I very suddenly became aware of just how hard my heart was pounding in my chest, and how _loud_ it was. There was no way I could go dashing anywhere now; even disregarding the two men in the distance, my knees felt like jelly, and if I made a movement too hasty I was certain I would faint. 

There have only been a few times in my life that have inspired that much fear in me, although, admittedly, it seems like small fish in comparison to what would later go down in Denver. Then, I'd be crouching on a rooftop rather than beside a bush, and as I watched the recruitment station slowly succumb to the fire, I would question myself. I'd wonder how I could have come so far and then, at the very end, when it might have actually mattered, how I could have just sat by and taken no action at all. And yet, here and now, at the bridge, before I even knew Kenny, I had acted.

You'd think it would have been the other way around, but then again, life doesn't exactly follow a preset list of instructions. It likes to veer off course sometimes.

"Holy moly, look at this!" someone exclaimed. The flashlight had finally found the proof of our deeds; the night sky, the swirling galaxy, and the white glowing stars. The light swayed back and forth over it, observing every detail from the edge of the bank. I could just barely see the two men craning their heads; one was a uniformed police officer, and the other was indistinct, dressed mostly in black and covered very well. I couldn't even see his face.

"Well," the gruff voice replied; it was the one in black. "It's pretty this time, at least."

"Yeah," said the officer, though he was clearly repressing the desire to sound impressed. "I actually kinda like whoever does ones like this; they pop up every couple of months. But, it's still graffiti. Gotta write it up anyway."

"I understand." He paused, and then I saw his head tilt; not far, just about a quarter inch or so. "Hey- there's something down there." My pulse was practically crawling out of my neck. The bags, I thought. He saw the bags.

"Just leave it for a second," the cop said. "Let me go back to the car; I need to get a camera to take pictures of all this, and that means leaving everything as is."

For a minute, it almost seemed like his companion would disregard him and jump down anyway, but then he nodded.

"Would you mind taking a look around the area to see if they dropped anything on their way out?"

"Sure. Just, hurry up with the pictures, yeah? It's cold."

"No problem, it won't take long."

Both men moved from the bank; the uniformed officer headed back to his car, and the other one I couldn't place began pacing along the bank, at first, evidently still curious about what he saw down there but wasn't allow to touch. Then, he began to drift further down, further away from the bridge. I waited. I couldn't even see him anymore, although I wasn't sure if that was due to distance or darkness, and still, I waited. I heard the patrol car's door open, and I saw the lights go on.

Finally, I decided that I could not wait anymore; it was now or never. My joints were numb with cold and it was all I could do just to straighten back up; I could practically hear them creak. My fingertips were red and numb and my boots felt like there were ice cubes crammed into where my toes should be. If I waited any longer, I wouldn't just be too late to swipe the bags away, it'd probably be too late for me to even get away at all. I had to just go in, grab the bags, and run off again. I'd be home free as long as I got the bags. I just had to focus on that.

Initially it hurt just to move, but then I loosened up. Moving was helping me shake off the cold. I crept in, slowly at first, trying to be discreet, but then I saw the cop pulling out of his car, and I froze, for about three seconds. Then, the second his head disappear inside again, I just went for it. Get the bags; that was all I had to think about.

I sprinted. It couldn't have been a very long dash, certainly no more than five or six seconds, but it felt like I was exposed forever. There was no shouting or sirens or anything; I didn't think anyone had even noticed me, but as loudly as I was panting, there was no doubt that someone would hear me soon.

I skidded down into the bank, not exactly silent but I didn't have time for anything else. When I landed, I dove for the paint cans and I hastily began scooping them into the plastic bags, trying not to pay attention to how much noise I was making, trying not to hear how loudly I was breathing, trying not to think of how suspicious it was going to look for me to carry plastic bags of spray cans through the streets even if I DID manage to get away. Recall, Tweek had taken the backpack, which I later realized was both a blessing and a curse; I couldn't carry the cans as easily, but then again it was one less thing to worry about.

After the fact, I think that it might have been wiser for me to just throw all of the bags and cans into the creek. The water would have taken care of any paper receipts and it would have probably washed away all fingerprints. Probably, being the keyword. Maybe that's why, if it did ever cross my mind, I just didn't think of it as an option. Like I said; life isn't just some tidy little list. The things you probably should have and shouldn't have done aren't always the most obvious.

My fingers numbly grasped at a spray can that was just out of my reach, and I wound up just pushing it farther away from me. I reached out for it. Then the shadow descended so fast that I nearly hit it on its way down, and I stumbled back only just in time, albeit with a shout involuntarily dislodging from my throat. A figure had vaulted over the side of the bridge and planted himself directly in my path. And when he landed perfectly on both feet and recovered to his full height, he said nothing, at first. For one long second, he stared at me, and I stared at him.

Then, all of a sudden, I knew exactly who he was. However, in the dark, with my hood up, I didn't think he recognized me. I had the advantage.

"Pretty stupid of you to come back," he growled. Then he reached for me.

That was all I needed. I swung my arm, first back to gain momentum, and then forward. He didn't duck in time; he didn't expect a bag full of aluminum cans to hit him in the face.

"Motherfucker-!" he swore, but I was gone.

I shimmied up the bank as fast as I could and then I fucking booked it. The bags were a terrible burden on me; as I have said, I don't run very well to begin with, so adding on a plastic bag full of metal knocking against my thighs just didn't really fucking help.

I gulped cold air and it froze my lungs until it hurt to draw breath and I didn't even know if I was far enough to be safe; I definitely knew I wasn't going to lose anyone with all the noise I was making. My best bet, I supposed, was get somewhere secluded long enough to ditch the cans for now, somewhere no one would find them, and come back for them later. I just needed to get far ahead enough to have thirty seconds to dispose of the evidence. That was all I needed.

I didn't even have that. The clanking of metal masked his approach, and by the time I realized I was not alone and I turned to glance over my shoulder, it was too late. He was a good runner; even despite my lead he'd caught up to me, and he was closing in fast. Then all at once he was on top of me, and once he reached me, he tackled straight into me. I let go of the bags as we both flew towards the ground, hitting it hard. The impact from both his tackle and the fall knocked the wind right out of me, and he was still on top of me, making it more difficult still for me to breathe or talk.

I tried to say something, tried to get out some plea that might convince him to spare me, but he shoved my face in the dirt and he held me there, shoving cold soil and frosty grass in my nose and mouth to where I wasn't just struggling to free my head from him, I was struggling for air. I could hear him panting over me.

"Fuckin' unreal," he said. "It's just fucking unreal how stupid people like you can be. Do you realize you've added assault on top of things now? Shoot, vandalism, that's a fuckin' cakewalk. But now..."

I managed to turn my head just enough to speak. I could taste the dirt on my tongue as I took a sharp breath, and I gasped, "Please-"

"Shut up, asslicker." He was keeping me down with his knees while he pulled my arms behind me. He held my wrists together.

Pride is a very sturdy thing, but nothing erodes it faster than fear. I didn't care about pride or petty grudges or anything at that moment except self-preservation. Nothing was more important than getting out of there without trouble. So I begged; I shamelessly begged, and I called out his name. "Kenny, please don't do this dude, please don't."

It was like I'd electrocuted him. He didn't let go of my hands, but I felt him jerk back, and he stopped hunching over me; he straightened up, I imagined him staring down at me with shock and wonder.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded. '_How do you know my name?' _was probably what he wanted to ask, but there was no point giving himself away like that first thing. He wasn't a complete idiot.

"It's me, it's Craig, it's Craig dude, from school."

Kenny released my hands and promptly rolled me over and pulled down my hood, and I was revealed. My heart was beating so fast that I could feel it in my eyes, and my teeth were clenched and still spotted with loose dirt and I was still shivering with cold, and I'm sure he could see all of this as plain as day. And he just looked at me like he was totally fucking lost, like I'd performed some kind of insoluble magic trick and utterly confounded him with the results.

"Kenny, I swear, I didn't do the spraying," I hastened to explain. "It wasn't me. I just watched. But when you guys came I got left behind and I just didn't want anyone to get in trouble. That's all." 

He continued to stare at me, not with disgust or anger or anything but just that continuous state of bewilderment. He was probably so conflicted, and though he didn't say it, I was sure he was fighting in his head for the right answer; whether he should let me go or continue as if nothing had changed.

"Please, I didn't do it, I didn't even do it..." I didn't know if he would listen. We weren't even friends. We hardly even looked at each other, let alone talked or even appeared civil in public. But something, somehow got through to him, and he let me go. He spoke to me sharply.

"Punch me in the face."

Now it was my turn to look baffled. But there was no time to explain; I could hear someone else coming up on us, and Kenny shook me hard, hissing through his teeth, "Do it!"

I did. On the ground I couldn't get a lot of power behind it, but I nailed him in his right cheek, and he rolled off of me with what I thought was a very exaggerated yell, considering he'd taken a face full of spray paint cans earlier and it hadn't bothered him all that much.

"Stay low," he muttered as he got back to his feet, making a show of holding his head as he got up. I realized he had discreetly untied his cape, and he let it fall over the white plastic bags, hiding them from sight. "And if you want me to keep quiet, meet me back there in ten minutes. You better be there; I want my cape back." Then he pulled my hood back up and he dashed off, yelling to his companion about the hooligan running off in some other direction. I stayed frozen on the ground, certain that the cop wouldn't fall for it, certain that he would sweep his flashlight over me, but he didn't. He followed Kenny's lead, and he led him away from me.

I remained where I was for an interminable period of time, unsure if I should even move or if it was better for me to simply lie there and avoid drawing attention to myself. I listened to the wind whistling through the leaves and the grass rustling in my ear and my heartbeat finally, steadily begin to slow, and it all seemed to take an eternity. I didn't hear either Kenny or the cop.

Finally, I slowly rose from the ground, glancing around furtively as I did so. I seemed to be alone. There was nothing but darkness keeping me company now.

I got to my feet, a little sore after having been tackled and roughed around, but I wasn't hurt. I was looking uncertainly at the cape; I didn't know whether I should take the cape and leave the bags behind, but after all this, it seemed stupid to leave them when anyone could just happen upon them. There wasn't exactly an ideal hiding spot for a couple plastic bags, and hadn't all this trouble been to ensure that they didn't fall into the wrong hands?

So I wound up just collecting everything inside the cape, and I bundled it up and threw it over my shoulder. I considered just leaving then and there and making a note to return Kenny's cape to him later, but I didn't want to do anything that would piss him off. Though I was free from his grasp for now, I was not yet in the clear. He'd told me to go back. I didn't think he would let me go only to have me walk into an ambush, not when I'd been so utterly at his mercy as it was to begin with. Stan's gang was full of assholes, but Kenny I knew didn't play games like that; he was a fuckwit, but he wasn't a sadist.

I told myself that if I went back I was probably walking into trouble and if I left I was probably walking into trouble, so if it came to it, it was probably easier for me to just walk into it now and get it over with. I began to return to the bridge.

Some background. You'll probably appreciate it a lot given how quickly everything has happened. I told you; I sometimes find it necessary to delay explanations, if only because I don't know exactly how to insert them. As I have mentioned, I am admittedly an amateur at this whole story telling business.

Quite a lot of the town remembered how several years ago, a young boy had masqueraded as a selfless superhero named 'Mysterion.' It was sort of just for fun at first, but then again, he had a knack for fading into the background and learning things, remember? He managed to tip off police more than once and actually catch a few petty criminals in the process. He was a true hero and everyone loved him yada yada yada. Unfortunately, his identity had been outed and he'd been forced to retire.

It's just that it had been so long that they assumed that this next incarnation of him was a copycat. You could say South Park wasn't run by the smartest folks. Somehow it never occurred to them that if he had been nine at the time the first Mysterion had appeared, that he would be about sixteen years old now; the same age as Kenny. 

I won't inflate my ego too much by saying that I was one of the few astute enough to catch on, (I'm certain at least a few other people knew) but I will say that the number wasn't very high. To me, it was obvious, but then again I noticed things.

In what felt like much less time than it had taken to flee from it, I returned to the bridge. I waited, at first, on the edge of the bank, just far back enough to observe the mural. We hadn't exactly had a lot of time to really appreciate it after all the trouble, and though the stars were starting to fade into the stone, and I couldn't see it very well, I thought that it was a fine night's work. I wasn't quite sure yet if it had been worth all the trouble, but then again, there was no guarantee that the trouble was even over yet.

Just on the shore of the creek, I noticed a spray can half caught by the weak current. It stubbornly clung to the shore, and the water was not nearly coercive enough to convince it to move.

Despite myself and all of the trouble I had gone through in the past hour, I managed a weak grin. All of that and one had been left behind. Go figure. I wasn't any more of a believer in luck than I was in destiny, but the fact is that I did always seem to come up short when it came to my luck in life.

I carefully climbed down the bank, still hoisting around the rest of the evidence of our mischief in the cape down with me before just setting it on the ground. I took a few steps towards the shore, and I plucked the can from out of the water. Then, Mysterion jumped down from the bridge again, landing behind me with a surprisingly soft THUMP.

If he hadn't already done it once before, I would have been more surprised. Instead, I startled for about half a second, and then greeted him, calmly. "I'm not impressed."

"I didn't expect you to be."

I pushed by him with the intent of replacing the can I had retrieved in the plastic bags. "Nice of you to come back around," I added, though I hadn't really been waiting very long.

"You too," he said in his rough growl. "Had to give my fellow keeper of the law the slip. Told him I thought you were headed to town and he could probably catch you on the main road in the car." He looked up at the sky for a moment, seemingly entranced by it. "Nice night for stargazing, isn't it?" he said, and then very purposely, he nodded his head towards the bridge. He was grinning.

I meant to reply sarcastically. I wanted my words to have as much chilling bite at the wind nipping away at my bare skin. Instead, I think my reply had a little more sincerity than I intended. "Not when you're nearly scaring the piss out of me, it ain't."

Mysterion chuckled. "You brought that upon yourself, you know."

Mysterion, the superhero, did a very good job of covering up his true identity. He had prepared well for his winter excursions, replacing his usual costume with thick clothes and good sturdy boots. The only resemblances to his usual outfit were the green question mark atop his head, the black hood that kept him covered, and the mask obscuring his face. It did a good job, generally; you could hardly tell that he was only sixteen, no less of a punk kid than the poor saps he caught performing mischievous deeds on a regular basis. But the mask could only do so much to protect him. His eyes would still burn right through you. Blue. Even in the dark, it was startling how blue they were. I didn't know a lot of guys with blue eyes to begin with, and I didn't know a lot of guys with eyes like that. There was no mistaking them. I still dream about them sometimes. Maybe it's kind of corny to say, but then again I dream about a lot of things. I've seen a lot of things. I still miss a lot of things.

"I'm guessing you're not responsible for all of this," he said as his eyes passed briefly over the graffiti again, hesitating briefly on the four words underneath all of it.

"None of it," I replied smartly. "I was telling the truth."

"Tweek does it all by himself, huh?" he commented, looking up and down at the mural.

"How do you...?"

"'No one gives a fuck about us. No one is listening,'" Mysterion recited. "Ain't no set of words in the English language that draws more attention to a whispered conversation than that. Shoulda listened to Tweek, man. You can share the details of your conniving plots somewhere less conspicuous than a crowded classroom. Of course, I guess you must have changed the time. I should have showed up earlier to ambush you; the last time I'd heard was 3 am. I've been asleep while you've been busy."

This did not quell my confusion at all. In fact, it made it worse. I asked, suspiciously, "If you knew it was me to begin with, why did you look so surprised?"

"I didn't think it was you," he informed me. "I thought it was Tweek."

I was offended, and I spared none of this offense in my retort. "Tweek is half a foot shorter than me!"

"You were crouched down when you were picking up the cans," Mysterion explained. "After I'd tackled you, I just figured it was our positioning or something."

"Why does it matter?" I demanded. "If it had been Tweek or me, what does it matter?"

"I don't got a beef with you. Tweek, though, Tweek's an asshole. I'd take him down if I could."

I don't think Tweek had ever done a thing in his young life to cause anyone to have a beef with him. It was beyond me why Kenny should hold a grudge with Tweek of all people. So I asked, "Why?"

"He got you and Kyle in so much shit because of that fucking weed, dude. By all means, smoke weed, light up 'til you're burnin' baby, but he let you take the fall for selling it. That's fuckin' weak. No respect for that, man."

He seemed to expect me to find this funny, and he grinned. I did not return the expression. I should have grinned along with him and agreed that me and Tweek were dumbasses and that, gee whiz, I sure learned my lesson, but I decided to be a shithead and press the luck I didn't have.

"But why does it _matter_?" I insisted. "We were both here; we both broke the law."

"I don't uphold the law. I don't have a cop's responsibilities."

"It doesn't make sense though. I'm not any different than him and you let me go."

He tilted his head again. "Are you angry about it or something?"

"No, I just...I don't understand. I don't get it. You had me done up. We aren't even friends."

"Nice to know," he quipped. But he didn't sound hurt, and he was still smiling.

"It's just..." I really wanted some kind of answer, but then I also didn't want to accidentally convince him to change his mind and decide to turn me in. It was a delicate thing, but being the type of person that I was, I lacked the finesse to handle it delicately. "Why would you lie to a cop and let some kid you don't even like go after you catch him red-handed involved in graffiti?"

"Because, one, you just admitted you hadn't done none of it, so if you didn't do it you don't deserve to go down for it. Second, it ain't graffiti. It's art." He was walking across the plank now, his hands behind his back, staring appreciatively at all of it now that he had a calm moment to do so. "Kids talk a lot around me. They don't notice me. They tell me they're gonna spray up a bunch of dirty words on some wall somewhere and when they go do it, we catch 'em red handed. 'cause they're morons. When I heard Tweek say he was gonna tag the bridge, I thought that's what he meant. I didn't realize he was doing a mural."

"It's still illegal," I insisted. He didn't seem to notice me; he was puzzling over the explicit detail set on such simple stone. "It's pretty, yeah, but it's still graffiti. You don't have a problem with that?"

"Nope. As long as it don't hurt nobody, I don't care what other people do. I'm a vigilante. I don't have to uphold the law; I just gotta stop people from doing immoral things, immoral being a subjective word as defined by me. And I don't think this is immoral."

"You don't?"

"Nah. I like it. I think Tweek's a piece of shit for getting away and nearly letting you take the fall for it, but I still admire his work." He began to cross the plank again, still gazing up and down the bridge, and he came to a stop at the four words on the wall. For Tweek they had been very high up; he had been nearly on his tip toes to spray them the whole time. For Mysterion, they were probably just about eye-level. He studied them. "Didn't realize Tweek was into that," he commented.

"Into what?" I asked. It still frustrated me that he was being so nonchalant about our rule breaking after bringing a uniformed police officer to catch us in the act, but I supposed that if he was willing to let it go, then I may as well too. I obviously wasn't getting a lot of answers from him either way.

Besides, I was kind of interested. Mysterion looked upon the four painted words with familiarity rather than mystery, and Tweek had never gotten to properly explain what they meant.

"PLUR. That acronym has some pretty specific connotations. Rave culture and such."

It was the same odd word Tweek had said. I realized now that it wasn't just his usual nervous jumbling of syllables, but it was a phonetic acronym, comprising of the first letter of each word on the wall. Peace, Love, Unity, Respect. PLUR. "Tweek's not into that," I responded resolutely. I'd known the kid since I was eight years old; if he were into that shit, I would have known. He was occasionally startled by Christmas lights flashing in unusual patterns; he'd have a massive panic attack at a rave. "He must have just read it somewhere and thought it was cool."

"Maybe," Mysterion conceded. "Or maybe I'll have to hit him up some time and go partying."

"Good luck with that." Tweek didn't even like birthday parties. "Tweek" and "partying" didn't even come close to belonging in the same sentence. I was very certain of that.

Kenny was grinning as he observed each word individually now. His gaze was currently occupied with Peace, specifically the sign replacing the A. His index finger was tracing the sparrow track inside. "Either way, it's nice to see some people in the world who are trying to make it more beautiful. It's a lot nicer to see words like 'Peace' and 'Love' sprayed onto walls rather than things like 'Fuck Bush' and 'Towelheads out of USA.'"

I stepped back to admire the wall with him. Tweek had done a really good job, I realized with a weird sense of secondhand pride. Wait until I told him that he'd done so well that he'd convinced Kenny to straight-up lie to a police officer to cover us.

"This symbol has a lot of connotations too," he added. His index was still on the peace sign, and he tapped it twice. "Do you know where the peace sign came from?"

"Hippies in the seventies wore it all the time," I answered with a shrug.

"It's actually from the 50's. We borrowed it from the Brits. These lines-" he traced the middle part again, the upside down sparrow track. "They're actually letters superimposed. 'N' and 'D'. It means 'nuclear disarmament.'"

I'd never heard of this phrase before, and I had never actually heard of the history of the peace sign before, but the more important fact was that I didn't care. It was a peace sign. Peace signs meant hippies and rainbows and forty year old dudes with unkempt beards singing 'Kumbaya'. Growing up in a small mountain town with a conservative family ingrained in me a general dislike for things of that nature.

"So what? What does that matter?" I replied. I'd spotted another paint can that had escaped my notice, and I headed for it, throwing over my shoulder as I went, "And you can cut the Christian Bale impersonation, while you're at it." As Token had reminded us earlier, Christopher Nolan's "Batman Begins" had been released the previous year. Evidently, Kenny had liked the lead's performance, and he did a fairly impressive impersonation of his voice. The little jackwit fancied himself a type of Batman, I guess.

"Heh." As requested, Mysterion's enigmatic growl became plain old Kenny. "It's just history, you know. Just some facts. People don't care enough about those kinds of things."

"I love history and facts," I assured him. My fingers wrapped around the can, and they weren't quite numb enough to ignore the fact that the aluminum was freezing cold. Just touching it sent a shiver up my spine. "It's just that if it doesn't pertain to me, I'm not interested. I only care about what's relevant to me."

"Well, then your world has gotta be really fuckin' small then, because there's a lot more going on in the world than what revolves around Craig Tucker. You're not even a speck in that galaxy, dude." He gestured to the mural on the bridge to prove his point. He was right; the mural was by no means to scale, but I wasn't even a fragment of a drop of paint on it in the grand scheme of things.

"Exactly. The universe is infinite. It can never end because it is infinitely expanding. Of all the planets and solar systems and galaxies in the universe, I'm a speck. A background character. An extra. Just one more player on the stage of life. Of no significance whatsoever."

"Jeeze, chill out, Nietzsche. I didn't mean it like that." Kenny hopped off of the plank as I began walking back towards him. He wandered off, and I soon saw that he was making himself useful; he was collecting one of the other cans of spray paint that had escaped my notice. I wondered how many more there were; I hadn't realized just how many different shades of blue and purple and gray had gone up on the wall.

I returned to just beside the bridge, standing just off of the plank but near enough that I could see all four words. Where I stood, the word 'Love' was closest to me. For some reason, this one seemed out of place. It was like in grade school when you were asked to point out the word that didn't belong in a group. Like, for example, Tweek and partying. Partying didn't belong in a sentence that also involved Tweek, and Love didn't belong in a sentence that also had those other three words in it. To me, you could achieve peace, unity, and respect without necessitating love. Love just complicated things and made people do stupid things.

Besides, love was impossible on a large scale. Love was something you shared with a few choice people. An entire country could be at united and at peace; that same whole country couldn't be in love all at the same time.

"You look thoughtful," Kenny commented. He had come up right next to me. I guess I was still staring at the words, wondering what exactly qualified love to be painted into the stone. Look back on it now, it was a silly thing to think about, but at the time, I had never been in love. It seemed kind of presumptuous to say that a person had to have love in their lives to be happy. I was happy, I thought, without being in love. I had no need for it, so why was it a prerequisite for anything else?

"Love doesn't belong up there," I commented.

Kenny turned to face me with a little frown on his face. "What makes you say that?"

"All of the other things are really important. People should make peace with each other and be united by something and people should all respect and tolerate each other. But none of that stuff has anything to do with love."

"I see," he replied. He didn't sound particularly convinced, so I continued.

"Love isn't even really a real thing, anyway. You can tell that a country is at peace because they don't go to war. You can tell one person respects another person because they treat them right and they don't talk shit about them. But love isn't even a real thing you can measure, you know? People only say they love you and their love is measured by inconsequential shit, like how much time and money they spend on the person they love. Love is so fickle and hollow and just plain senseless. When has anything useful in the world ever been achieved because of love?"

"I take it you've never been in love," Kenny commented. "Or else you've had a really, really bad experience with love and it left you very bitter."

"The former," I clarified. "Never been."

"Ah." He nodded, like he understood.

Purely for the sake of argument, I asked, "Have you?"

"Not really, not seriously. But I've loved people. I love my family, for example."

"You?" I said skeptically. Kenny's family did not consist of the most likeable people. More on that later.

"Yes, yes, I do," he sighed. Poor guy probably heard enough meddlesome questions about it, so I didn't press it. "It just seems kind of depressing to think that you don't need love at all."

"I don't mean it like that. I'm not saying any of this in like, an angsty, melodramatic sort of way like those goth kids who are always like, 'life is pain' and shit. It's not tragic; it's just unimportant."

"I know, I get it." Kenny shrugged and threw his paint can a few inches in the air, catching it easily. He did this a few times while we both observed the wall, both the mural and the four words. I realized I still had the can I'd retrieved earlier in my hand. "Well, I guess it don't matter now. It's up there now; nothin' gonna change that."

I wasn't sure what it was that made me do it. Maybe I was just intentionally being a rebellious shithead. I had held and carried the spray paint for Tweek before, but I'd never actually used any of them. I'd never actually made my mark on anything with them before. But tonight, in response to Kenny's statement, I pulled off the cap and began to shake the can hard. I stepped up to the stone, still shaking it, and then I aimed, right at the bottom corner of the 'L', and I compressed the nozzle. The paint inside was dark blue, navy, and I made a short, just slightly crooked diagonal line across the word. Then, I did the same thing again, this time crossing the two lines to form a long, horizontal 'X' over the word. I crossed it out.

"There," I said, mimicking Kenny and tossing the can a few inches in the air before catching it again.

"What was the fuckin' point of that?" Kenny asked. Now, he sounded a little disgruntled. "You ruined it."

"I fixed it," I corrected. "I think things would be a lot easier if people weren't so obsessed with something they'll never really attain. It's like watching heroin addicts chasing the dragon. PLUR is great and all, but, focus on the PUR part first; then maybe we'll have time for love. As it is, all we ever worry about is the L part, and PUR ain't even considered. We gotta get our priorities straight; that's all I'm saying." Then I replaced the cap on the spray can and returned to the cape, slipping the can into one of the plastic bags. The aluminum clambered inside with the rest.

Kenny made a noncommittal hum in his throat. He was staring at the four words with his chin resting thoughtfully in his thumb and index. He was mulling over my words. It was hard to tell exactly what he was thinking; the mask covering his face took away from most of his expression. In his free hand, he continued to hold the spray paint across his stomach. I reached for it.

"Can I have that back now?" I asked.

"Just hang on a second," he said. He shied away from me when I tried to just take it from him. "The thing is, yeah, all of the assets in PLUR aren't permanent. They're all fleeting. Maybe some are more obvious than others and more common than others, but they are all things that come and go. There's no such thing as permanent peace or respect. Or love," he added afterward.

"Exactly. The universe is infinite," I reminded him. "We are not."

"It's just that of the four of those concepts on the wall, love is the one that stays with you the most."

"People fall in and out of love all the time," I argued. "Christ; the divorce rate is 50% in this country."

"Yeah, people fall out of love, just like people eventually stop being united and et cetera. However, just because you fall out of love with someone doesn't mean the love isn't still there. If you were once at peace with a country and then you enter into war with them, the prior peace doesn't matter anymore. It has no further affect on you. You want to make new peace with them eventually, sure, but the old one has no lasting consequence. Talk to someone who's heartbroken over a lover leaving or dying, even long after they've moved on and found someone new to love, and they'll tell you that love never really goes away. Maybe people pass out their love too easily, yeah, but maybe it's just because we're inclined to love as much as possible, you know? Not because love is useless but because it's everything we are."

"I'd say that this is the difference between Nietzsche and Socrates," I commented. "And if I'm not mistaken, Soc was a schizo."

Kenny's grin widened. He looked pleased. "'I cannot remember a time when I was not in love with someone,'" he recited. "You're familiar?"

"Not with that quote, no. But I know he was a nut when it came to loving every one and every thing. He said something like, if you don't love something it's because you aren't a living being, or something."

Despite this, he continued to look pleased, and then he faced the stonework. As I had done, he plucked off the can's cap, and he shook it. "The thing is, even if you think you have no love, you do. Because just like the universe, love is always expanding inside us." He was adding to my X, connecting the ends with two slightly misshapen 'Cs' at the ends. They were a faint orange-yellow; it was what Tweek had painted the distant planet in the mural with. With two tiny modifications, he transformed my 'X' into the infinity symbol. Instead of the wall now reading 'No Love,' it now read 'Infinite Love.'

"Alright," I said, impatiently, "What was the point of _that_?"

"Love is always infinite. Even if you think it goes away, it doesn't. It stays with you. It just continues to expand so that you can continue to love other people. It blows up like a star and is born again into something else. But it's always there, even before you realize it's there, even before you can explain it."

"I'm thinking a lot of different words right now that explain this perfectly." I began slowly holding up fingers to count off the various words I was thinking. "Pedantic. Jejune. Quixotic."

Despite my earlier balking about my mother, the truth is that I liked flashing off my vocabulary. As I have said, I liked words, even if I wasn't very good at using them in a way that made sense to people. I fancied myself one smart cookie compared to the rest of the swarming shitheads in this town, and especially in a case like this, I enjoyed using my expansive vocabulary to confuse people into shutting them up. It usually wasn't difficult in a town where even adults barely maintained a seventh grade reading level. 

Kenny, however, merely scowled at me; either he had not understood and he was peeved about it, or he had, and he didn't care for my choice of words. I never did find out which. "You can think whatever you want, dude." He replaced the cap on the spray paint and threw it to me. I caught it, and then tossed it into the bag.

"I will," I replied.

"Anyway, that's all I wanted to say. You tell Tweek that he lucked out this time, you hear? The next time I hear about you two doing this shit, I'm not going to be nice about it."

"I understand."

"I'm serious. If I run you to the ground again, I'll be the one punching you. I don't care if Tweek left you to fend for yourself and you aren't even guilty to begin with; I'm not lying to anyone to cover for your ass again the next time you do something stupid."

"Trust me," I assured him. "I understand. You aren't going to have to cover for me ever again." I paused for a moment, and then, I decided it was prudent of me to remind him that I was grateful. "And thank you for covering for me this time. You really saved my ass, and I know it."

Kenny nodded and he seemed satisfied. He retrieved his cape from around the plastic bags still loaded with paint cans, and he tied it around his neck again. "You ought to stay away from people who are gonna get you into trouble," he suggested.

"Tweek's not trouble," I said. "He just..." Despite my professed 'expansive vocabulary,' I couldn't think of the right word to describe Tweek, and Kenny very quickly grew bored of waiting.

"I'll see you around." He raised his hand for brief wave. I hardly acknowledged him before he turned with an intentional flourish, so that his cape flowed behind him. He wasn't quite so graceful climbing up the bank, but from there, he disappeared.

Before I took my leave myself, I couldn't help but continue to stare at the mural for a bit longer. That secondhand pride came back, and I felt very pleased with it. Tweek had painted a lot of great stuff in the time we'd been together, and this one was by no means his most complex or his most intricate, but it was certainly pretty, and I think it was my favorite. What ruined it a little was the mismatching infinity symbol that stained over the couple of letters below, and then, it irritated me. I had no idea that it would soon change everything.


	22. Part Three: Understanding

**Part Three  
><strong>  Understanding 

_The world isn't just 'the way it is.' It is how we understand it, no? And in understanding something, we bring something to it, no? _  
><em> Doesn't that make life a story? <em>

Yann Martel


	23. Part Three: Brick Laying

Brick Laying

Considering I've conspicuously assigned the title of "the symbol that changed everything" to something as simple as the word "love" sprayed onto a wall with the infinity symbol sprayed on top of it, you would think that this symbol would become recurring from here on out, some sort of deeply symbolic and meaningful part of the story that serves as some sort of metaphorical underlying narrative.

It doesn't.

In point of fact, it's only ever going to be mentioned again a handful of times.

Go figure.

However, it's fair to say that this small act of good will and the proceeding inspirational wisdom on Kenny's part would later become a massive force in my life. You could even say it would soon be life changing, or you could even turn it into a fancy analogy if you like. You can say whatever you want about it; I don't really care.

Or you can take it like I did, at face value, and presume that this tiny influence on my life was in every way insignificant. 

No, it wasn't that night that really lit the flame for me. But all of that would all come very soon and very rapidly, maybe a little too rapidly. Just not now; just not quite yet.

Anyway, we've got a lot more ground to cover before we even get anywhere. I've noticed that we've come a long way already and Kenny has barely even managed to say hello, so that means we haven't even cut through the surface yet. I need to at least get you to Kenny first.

We've got a lot more relevant information that has to be laid down first before I can actually explain what happened, so let's lay a few more bricks in place and see what comes of it. Let's talk about ceiling constellations, Tweek's title worthy haymaker, philosophical foreplay, a mall reconnaissance, the pet store being alive, going with your gut, and the arts of cynicism and misanthropy.

None of it makes sense yet, I know, and I actually can't promise that it will any time soon. Just try to keep up; the pace only increases from here on out.


	24. Part Three: Ceiling Constellations

Ceiling Constellations

After we parted ways, I didn't think too hard about Kenny. Not right away. I was more preoccupied with getting home, hiding the evidence of our mischief, and finding out whether or not Tweek got home safe.

He had, as it turned out. He'd also left me about ten or twelve text messages and five or six missed calls.

"Oh Jesus Christ, thank God you're okay Craig!" he fretted when I finally got home and felt safe enough to call him. "I thought you'd been caught and you'd be questioned and you'd get in trouble and go to jail and-" I heard him choke on his usual verbal tic and then it sounded like he dropped the phone. I heard what I assume was him scrambling to get it back in his hands again, and I just patiently waited throughout all of this. "Anyway," he finally said, sheepishly, "I'm so sorry man. I swear I felt like shit for leaving, I was about to go turn myself in if you didn't call me in the next five minutes, I swear-"

"Tweek, just do me a favor and stop talking."

"Okay, I will, sorry. I'm just really fucking sorry-"

"The mural was really pretty tonight. You were right; it was totally worth it."

"Hnnggh, thanks man..."

"And now I'm going to sleep. Good night."

I hung up without waiting for a response and deleted all of his incriminating texts. Then I took an excruciatingly hot shower to get the frost out of my blood, crawled up into my attic, put on warm, soft sweats, and collapsed into bed.

Unfortunately, I did not easily fall asleep. At first I thought it was Spot keeping me up; guinea pigs are nocturnal, and he was bustling about in his cage, looking for some action. Tired and sore though I was, I wound up flicking on my light and taking him out of his cage, and I played with him for a good hour. I pet him and let him scurry all over me and I let him dash around my room until it was almost too late to catch him, only to pounce over and swipe him back up again before he could get himself into trouble.

Some people think there's not a whole lot you can do to keep occupied with a guinea pig, but if you are fond of things that are boring and repetitive and very soft and cuddly, guinea pigs make excellent play mates.

After a while, we just laid on the bed together, thinking, and I stroked Spot while he settled down on my chest and he gnawed a block of cedar wood. I thought at first that I was finally tired, that I might be able to sleep, and so I wearily rose one last time, carrying Spot back to his cage and replacing him into the hay and bedding. He bustled off to his water bottle for a drink and then went back to gnawing the cedar wood. I went back to my mattress and fell heavily onto it, and I still couldn't sleep.

I stared at the glow in the dark stars on my ceiling for hours, flicking on my light now and then to recharge them if they faded. I whispered the constellations to myself to ease my mind. Draco. Ursa Major. Cassiopeia. Somehow, Tweek's mural kept floating back to mind, and I could just see it so clearly as my finger traced the fake constellations that soon dimmed and faded along with the darkness outside my window. I kept wanting to reach out and touch it, and beside it, I saw Kenny's face too, and he would grin and step aside and infinity would be glowing behind him.

It was well past six in the morning before I actually fell asleep, and I slept very fitfully. There's nothing quite like a healthy dose of guilt to sprinkle a little uneasiness on your soul, but I would get over it. I always did. Tweek and I had done this sort of thing before. And as my dad used to say, sure you feel like a right prick for shootin' a doe in deer season, but you'll still eat the bitch, won't you?

My family did not hunt and we did not often eat venison.

Tuckerisms admittedly never made a whole lot of sense to me, but then most things like that didn't.

In the morning, (rather, the afternoon, when I finally woke up) I heard all about the fuss the town was making over the bridge, as predicted. My father said it was a damn shame that there were so many hooligans in what was otherwise such a nice, quiet town, and I said nothing. Later, when it was brought up, Clyde would just purse his lips and graciously split his glare between the two of us, but he didn't say a word about our wrongdoings, bless that kid.

The town got over it, as they always did. If nothing else, at least this round of graffiti was pretty. Everyone agreed on that. They always focused on the space mural rather than the words underneath, and I think there were a great many people in that town that did not realize that the symbol that would change everything was right there in plain sight, for all to see. I think Tweek himself didn't notice it for a long time; he didn't really like admiring his own work. For a long time after that, when we went to the park, Tweek would very intentionally avert his gaze from the bridge. That's just how he was.

Tweek wouldn't learn his lesson for another year or two, but I don't remember most of the other excursions I attended with him. They were all beautiful, but none really quite stuck out to me like that one did. I remember he said once that he had done that one for me. Maybe that's the reason it sticks out; it was a gift from him.

For some years after I would go to the park and wander past that bridge, and while it's true I often spent a lot of time just staring at Kenny's little symbol, I cannot deny how long I would sit and just stare at those stars, still pinpricks of light poked through the stonework even long after the paint stopped being able to glow.

The bridge has been painted over with quite a lot of graffiti now, and while PLUR remains readable, space has faded almost entirely into a vague purple blob. Many have written over it since. Last I heard, the town was thinking of tearing it down and maybe building one that was a little less grandiose. It wouldn't be the first; much of Tweek's artwork has been torn down over the years. Like I said; he almost exclusively tagged old buildings that were marked for destruction at some point anyway. He always knew that his art would never be permanent, and I think he liked that. That it would exist for a while, fade, and then eventually be gone forever.

When I think about him now, I sometimes wonder if maybe he'd become an artist or something. Tweek never really had any aspirations in life, (what, like I did?) and the only thing I knew he would have really enjoyed was painting.

Now and then, even these days, I'll still scan magazines and browse art shows looking for some sort of sign or reference or something, just _something_ that might let me know, something that might lead me to him. But I never find anything. At least with Kenny I had some degree of closure; Tweek just left me wondering.

If there's one thing you need to understand about me, it's this: I hate wondering.


	25. Part Three:Tweek's Title Worthy Haymaker

Tweek's Title Worthy Haymaker

I meticulously wrapped my hands, layering them as I wound the bandage over and over again around my palm and my knuckles. Across the room, Tweek was doing a series of simple stretches, nothing too complicated, (if he didn't stretch he was at risk for cramps and strains; if he stretched too much he was at risk for pulled ligaments and tendons) but it kept him very focused just the same. 

Our clothes were thrown haphazardly into our respective "corners" after we'd stripped down to our boxers. Less clothes meant less material for your opponent to grab. For as long as we'd been doing this, you'd think we might have invested in shorts by now, but what did we care? Boxers kept the goods hidden just fine without spending a dime.

Tweek was stretching to the ceiling, fingers overlapping and stomach stretched taut, and I could plainly see his ribs. It wasn't bad enough to call him emaciated; it wasn't like his parents starved him or nothing. But the kid was skinny, a lot skinnier than me. Poor diet and an inhuman ability to go without sleep kicked his metabolism into overdrive. If anyone else looked at him and looked at me, they'd think that he wouldn't stand a chance. They'd be wrong. Not because I was especially jacked or anything, but because he was Tweek Tweak, and if anyone had taught me how to fight, it was him.

The floor had been cleared and his music was on in the background, as usual. These were the days when dubstep was taking its baby steps in America, before Skrillex and Bassnectar made it mainstream in the U.S., and Skream and Kode9 were dominating the subwoofer. The music had been a bit heavy for me at first, but I'd grown used to it. He usually only played it at these times, the times when harsher music was called for, and I couldn't deny that it definitely got your blood pumping.

"Ready?" he asked me. There was always a weird intonation to his voice right before, something that was never there at any other time. It was like a toughness, some sort of weird, unyielding substance lending itself to his words. Something changed in him right before, I was sure of it; I just didn't know what it was.

I tucked in the ends of my bandages and nodded, throwing my arms a bit and then whirling them in wide circles to stretch out my shoulders. We both popped in mouth guards between our teeth, and I clenched down on mine, snarling and readjusting to get it to fit better. Then I stood and assumed my position at the edge of the circle, and Tweek faced me on the opposite side. We both cracked our necks and stared each other in the eye while the current song faded away. Then a heavy remix of "Tapped" kicked in, and we stepped into the circle, very slow, very mindful of each movement, of each breath even. We waited. Then the bass dropped.

Tweek moved first. He almost always did; it was usually just a question of when. I had a limitless supply of patience and would stand there for many minutes before making a move if Tweek let me. Remember, I didn't do anything unless it was deserved. I'd never be the first one to throw the punch; I'd only hit you if you hit me first.

I caught the punch, but he knew I would. That's why it had been a weak punch; just a distraction. That's why before he could lose momentum, he also attempted to kick my foot out from under me while I was off balance from his upper assault.

It worked, he'd been successful, but I felt myself going down in time enough to retaliate. He'd wasted all his energy and momentum to get me onto the ground, and that left him wide open, in a position that made it too easy for me to grab him so that he toppled down with me. We both fell heavily to the floor and we grunted with the impact, but we didn't allow ourselves to grow distracted.

We wrestled with each other, and we wheezed through our noses and snarled through the mouth guards until I managed to take control. He must have known I would; I'll give credit where credit is due, but the fact is that I'm physically a lot stronger than him. I didn't understand why he would even want me on the ground in the first place, and I was certain that this wouldn't be the end of it.

Once I had him under me, and I straddled him with my knees tight against his body to prevent him from wriggling as much as I could. I punched at his face repeatedly, not letting up once, left, right, left, right. He blocked almost every consecutive strike with his arms, and I couldn't get a good solid hit on his face, but I managed to skim him a little in a few places. All I can say is that it's a good thing my knuckles were safely wrapped.

I managed to keep him at my mercy for a good minute, though every now and then he tried to buck me off and I came precariously close to losing my balance. He kicked himself across the floor in an attempt to unsettle me. He was probably giving himself some nice rug burns just trying to get away from me, but he wasn't successful.

Then there was a second or two that I stopped and paused to take a breath, (it was easier to lose your breath when your mouth was blocked off, was the problem) and then without warning, his arms dropped and he leaned up and he solidly head butted me.

Head butts hurt both parties equally as bad most of the time, but my head was my weak point. I couldn't take much of a beating with my head. That one good head butt did what a dozen good punches wouldn't.

Instantly I was dazed, and I nearly fell off of him on my own. He helped me along by pushing on my chest with both hands, and as I fell back it looked, at first, like we would trade places. But I caught him in my legs before he could get on top of me, and I wrapped them and locked them around his waist. I used them to keep him at bay while he threw long punches at my face. As we were, he probably wouldn't be able to get at me; I had long, strong legs and he was just too damn short. But then again I also couldn't let myself just remain in a position so vulnerable. I had to try and improve it.

I sacrificed a hit to my jaw to steady myself with both hands, and when he swung again he missed as I violently rolled to the side, taking him with me as I did so until we were both grappling on the floor. Neither of us was able to establish dominance again, and we continued rolling along until we both realized that ground work was not going to pay off; we both just needed to get back on our feet.

As we came to this unspoken agreement, we pushed away from each other and we scrambled to our feet in nearly the same time.

I rubbed my jaw and glared him down, and he did the same to me. I could hear him breathing heavily; his nose must have been a little stuffy, because every breath he took I could hear it whistling through his nostrils. He never took his eyes off of me. In the background, monitoring our performance, the modulated base wobbled vicariously and our rapid heartbeats banged in time to the percussion.

He bounced constantly, never ceasing, always waiting, always jumping from foot to foot, as though his heartbeat depended on it, but I remained still. Footwork was important, I know, but I saw no reason to expend the energy. I would rather continue projecting the appearance of impermeable calm than look all worked up. It was more intimidating. The problem was just that Tweek was not intimidated by me.

I feinted like I was about to spring on him and charge into him, and I saw him flinch and ready himself for impact. Before he could recover from defending an attack that wasn't going to come, I sprung on him for real, but not for a charge; for a punch. He didn't defend it because he wasn't expecting it; he'd been doubling down to keep on his feet. My fist connected with his cheek, a solid straight punch, but he didn't take the blow for nothing; his knee reared up and bashed me right in the gut. When I stepped away I instinctively was keeling over, and he came right at me. I blocked his first two punches, and then he decked me with an uppercut that sent my ears ringing.

Tweek was small and he didn't look like much, but the kid hit like a truck. Those fists were like fucking bricks, and my head was already aching enough as it was.

I managed to hang in there long enough to return a good solid punch to his nose, and in satisfyingly dramatic consequence, blood squirted from his face. I heard him choke down a squeal, but it did nothing to deter him. Before I could recover for another blow, he reared back and decked me with a title worthy haymaker, and I staggered back. If my ears were ringing before, they were clanging now.

It took a lot of effort on my part not to just kneel to the ground then and there, but it didn't matter; he tackled me down instead, and as he kept me down he hovered over me, throwing punches while I desperately blocked and he dripped blood down my arms.

My head was still spinning and when he dove in to break my block, I was too weak to resist it. He managed to get one more good punch to the side of my head, and I tapped his thigh. I tapped out.

Tweek continued to kneel on top of me, but he wilted and put a hand to my shoulder to steady himself. He reached up weakly with his other hand and pulled the mouth guard from his teeth with a gasp, and then he threw it aside. His chest and shoulders heaved as he panted, and I could feel his support arm shaking.

Me, I just laid on the floor and waited for the room to stop spinning. I couldn't even try to sit up yet; if my head didn't kill me, the vertigo would. You try getting punched in the head a few times by Tweek and tell me how you fair. My strategy was all about getting an early lead and dominating the entire way through; meanwhile, he could punch his way to victory no matter how far behind he was. Boxing had not been his only extraneous hobby for nothing.

"You good?" he panted.

I nodded and managed to work my jaw enough to spit out my own mouth guard, and then my head collapsed back to the ground.

"You sure?" he said, worriedly. "Your eyes are all crazy man, is it your head...?"

"I'm fine," I told him curtly. "You'd know if I had a concussion. I just need to rest." I just closed my eyes and kept my head on the ground, breathing heavily. I could feel him rising and falling along with every breath.

"Alright," he eventually conceded. He reached up with his arm to wipe off his sweat, but he didn't quite make it; all of a sudden, he remembered his nose was still pouring, and he squeaked in surprise.

"No more after this," I told him. We could often go a couple rounds a night as long as we didn't batter each other up too much and we took a good break in between, but I was done. It was true I'd had a concussion once before, (I say it wasn't Tweek's fault; Tweek says that it was) and getting my head pounded anymore tonight was probably unwise. Besides, I wasn't really in the mood.

Tweek nodded and didn't ask for an explanation. He was usually cool like that.

Instead, he crawled off of me and wiped the blood off on his arm. He was still dripping, and it was getting everywhere; on his arm, on his chest, on his carpet. He looked around for something to wipe his face with, but his search didn't seem very fruitful.

"Just go wash up, I'm good," I told him.

I could tell he was already coming back down to normal. Well, normal for Tweek Tweak. He'd been so involved in finding something to clean his face that he twitched when I spoke. But then, when he turned his head to look at me, you could tell. He was on the verge of getting freaked. You could always tell; it was in his face, in his eyes.

"Calm the fuck down and go clean yourself up," I instructed, remaining calm despite my expletive. I managed to lift my head and then sit up with painstaking slowness, and I looked right at him. It was a little hard to focus with my left eye; I felt like it would start swelling soon. I just wanted to keep laying down. But if he was about to descend into a freak out, I had to do something. "It's just blood. You've had a bloody nose before."

Tweek was gripping his nose with his fingers, squeezing it, and even then, you could see his hand shaking. "Hnng...y-yeah, asshole, I know that."

"Then go. Stop flipping out and just go."

"I will..."

"Then _do it_, why are you hanging around?" I demanded of him.

His panting had progressed to hyperventilating and he'd stopped looking directly at me, but he still wasn't moving. I didn't think I had the strength to stand up and shake him out of it.

"I'm not hurt. See? I can sit up and look at you and talk to you. I'm fine. We're both fine."

He jerkily nodded, still pinching his nose, and he finally ran off. I didn't think I'd successfully talked him out of the pending freak out, but I also didn't think it would be very bad. It would probably be a small one, over and done with in a few minutes or so. That, more than anything, was why he'd probably left; he just wanted to get it over with without me seeing.

He didn't usually freak out after fighting. I wasn't sure if it was the blood or him thinking he'd given me another concussion or what, but whatever it was, he didn't want me involved. I respected that.

It took me another minute of holding my head for me to get my bearings, and then I shoved myself off of the ground. I grabbed both of our mouth guards, (his was kinda bloody, and I tried to touch it as little as possible) and tossed them. I used my tank top to wipe the sweat off of my forehead, and then I used it to wipe his blood off of me too. I could have gone to the bathroom, but I figured he might be in there, and he'd want his privacy. It wasn't that big a deal; I would shower when I got home anyway.

Instead, I threw away the tank top and just pulled on my t-shirt without it. I didn't bother putting my pants back on yet; I didn't really feel like it. We'd laid around for hours in our boxers before; it wasn't a big deal for us.

I checked my teeth and then checked each finger to ensure that I hadn't dislodged anything, and then I hastily unwrapped my bandages and let them flutter to the floor. Then, I stumbled along to his sound system and changed it from dubstep to something softer, what Tweek called "chill-out," which was basically some kind of techno that went really slowly instead of really fast. I just wanted to relax.

After turning it down a bit, (even the soft music was making my head throb) I went straight to his bed and crashed into the pillow. My mattress back home was nice and firm and had practically no give, but his was like falling onto a cloud. It wasn't down and it was just a little firm, but damn, it was cushion heaven. Furthermore, unlike most other beds I've had the misfortune of being around, his always smelled really clean, like the bedding had only just been done. It was probably because he rarely, if ever, slept in it.

It was a while before Tweek returned, but when he did, he seemed calm. He also had a small ice pack with him. "H-here," he called. His voice sounded a little off; he'd plugged up his nose with cottonballs for now. Maybe he couldn't quite stop the bleeding.

"Thanks," I answered, and I held up my hand. He threw it to me, but his aim was a little off and it landed beside me on the bed. I just picked it up and plopped it over my eye, and then I leaned back into the pillow.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Peachy," I replied. "You?"

"Peachy," he replied in a wry tone that told me he was not even slightly peachy, but I should stop asking anyway.

"Good."

Tweek pulled on a t-shirt that was such an abhorrent shade of lime green that it single-handedly worsened my headache just by looking at it, and then he sat on the bed, his back towards me, and he rubbed his eyes for a moment. I just turned over to face away from him. The shirt. It was killing me.

"Smoke?" he offered.

"Please."

"Cig or joint?"

"I don't care."

"Alright," he replied, and he leaned over his bed.

A delayed explanation: we fought each other to release stress and tension and anger and anything else we were feeling that could not sufficiently be dealt with by just talking. We both had our reasons for needing a release like that, and we'd been diligently beating the shit out of each other since elementary school. One round didn't quite do enough to exhaust all of those negative emotions I spoke of, but luckily, there were other options.

It's worth noting that none of those options was particularly good for your health.

He opened the drawer to his nightstand and I heard the very faint rustling of paper. I figured he was rolling a blunt, a theory proven right a few minutes later after he lit the result and passed it off to me after taking a good drag off of it.

Only because I was forced to in order to smoke, I rolled back over onto my back and propped myself up a bit with his pillows. I took my share of a drag and then passed it back.

You might think it was kind of ballsy of us to smoke weed right under his parents' house, but oddly enough his parents didn't seem to mind what it was we did up here, whether it was beating each other senseless or partaking in illegal drugs. Just weed, mind, and that's not even that bad. I mean, Colorado would later legalize it in 2013; we'd just been a little ahead of the curb, that's all.

Tweek initiated conversation, and of course, it was guilt that crumbled from his mouth. "Man, I'm still so wound up over the bridge," he admitted. I should have known it was coming eventually, I'd thought at the time. "We were really lucky we got out of there. Fuck man, Clyde was right; we shouldn't have hit it, they're all over it right now." The hand holding the joint was shaking; I was worried he would accidentally drop the ash onto the bed, and that would have just been bad. So, silently, I plucked it from out of his fingers. He didn't seem to mind; his hand instead went to his teeth, and he methodically began chewing off his nails.

"It's going to be fine," I told him. "Kenny covered for us, remember? We're not going to get in trouble." I still find it amusing to point out that whenever either of us spoke of the graffiti, it was always 'us,' as though both of us had been responsible for painting it.

"I know, I know, we've never gotten caught before. It's just weird to me; why would Kenny cover? He doesn't like either of us, AND he's the one who told on us to begin with."

"Mhmm." We had both hashed all of this out the day after the event, especially after it had been on the news. I'd told him almost everything and he had been mortified to learn that we'd been ambushed by someone we'd grown up with, and worse yet, he was terrified that Kenny had it out for him and that he'd have to watch his back around him from now on, and nothing I could say could convince him that Kenny wasn't conspiring against him.

But for me, it was old; it was beaten. I was no longer interested.

Being in charge of the joint meant I was coming up on my buzz a lot faster than Tweek was, and I decided this was bad. So despite my throbbing head, I reached over and flicked off as much ash as I could into the tray on his nightstand, and then I offered it back to him. He took it, absently, but only took a hit after he'd finished chewing off all of the nails on his left hand. His right hand was still shaking.

"You don't think he's gonna blackmail us, do you?" he asked when I did not indulge his suspicions.

"Nah. He's a slum, but he doesn't do shit like that."

"But what if he does?"

"Then we call him on it, obviously. What proof does he have?"

"Do you really think people would believe us over him?" The implication was obvious; Tweek was more thought of as a freak than an outright bad kid, but the truth of the matter was that he and I together did not score very high on the town's good list. He was aware of it, I was aware of it; the two kids who had the most undeserved reputation probably had the worst one, and all we were guilty of was fighting each other and smoking some pot and painting stars at night.

"Kenny's not gonna rat," I told him again, surely.

"How do you know, though?" he asked again. He was taking deeper drags on the joint now, and it was starting to finally take effect on him. His voice started getting a little more mellow, despite the gripping paranoia he was still nursing in his head. He was shaking a little less. Soon he might actually resemble something vaguely reminiscent of 'calm.'

"I don't," I stated. His responding, guttural, 'gah!' was to be expected, but he didn't present a proper reply. Likely, he was still too tense to form one. I thought over the conundrum in my head, and made my decision. "Look, I'll talk to Kenny tomorrow. Maybe just, you know, make sure he gets the message." It was Sunday, the last day of the weekend, and while no one seemed to suspect the true culprits, I'd not had a chance to directly confront Kenny over the bridge. We didn't often associate outside of school; he had his group of friends and I had mine, and after middle school or so we had stopped mingling. In school, provided we could find a solitary enough location, I could talk to him.

"Don't hurt him or anything," Tweek reprimanded immediately. "That'll just make him want to rat even more."

"He doesn't want to in the first place, I'm telling you. He liked the mural. He thought it was really well done."

"R-really?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Nggh..." He passed the joint off to his other hand so that his free hand could tap nervously on the nightstand. The little bits of nail he had left rapidly tapped the surface, tap-tap-tap-tap. "Alright, just talk to him, I guess..."

"Don't stress over it, alright? He'll probably just tell me what he told me that night." For Tweek's sake, I'd paraphrased our conversation that night, leaving out some of the more rambling things I'd thought were unnecessary and the part where we sort of defaced his only actual message. Tweek hadn't quite been satisfied, but then again, the kid was always paranoid.

"I hope so." He offered me the joint again, and I only took one more hit before telling him I was done and rolling back over again. I suppose he eventually finished it; I wound up just laying there for almost an hour, slowly nursing away my headache but not quite finding enough peace to really sleep. I drifted in and out with the music, and he just sat there next to me the whole time and drew and the music kept us both company.

After a while, I finally got up, pulled my pants back on, and bid him adieu; simple as that. That was how we were.

"Call me if you can't sleep," I told him.

"Always do," he replied. When I left, he was still doodling, absently, and he was also still bleeding from a cut on his forehead. He was too focused on the paper, though, so I just left him as he was.


	26. Part Three: Philosophical Foreplay

Philosophical Foreplay

That following day, I didn't drift along with the rest of my friends that morning as I usually did before our first period. Instead, as I'd promised Tweek, I went searching for Kenny.

Kenny and I ran with very different people, and let me be frank: I had nothing but contempt for his people. His people were the type that SHOULD have the reputation for being bad kids, but somehow everyone seemed to love them. Not that I had a grudge or anything.

The tricky thing was that you couldn't often find Kenny on his own. For one, he almost always traveled with his friends. They were a pretty tight knit bunch, not too unlike my own. He never seemed to stand out much from them, and he always came off as sort of like a tag-a-long. I have a feeling he kinda liked that, though.

The other problem was that if Kenny didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be. I'm not kidding; this kid could practically turn invisible at will. If he wasn't in his group, good luck figuring out where else in the world he could possibly be.

That morning, I discovered good and bad news, and the good and bad news were both the same discovery: he was with his friends.

For a while, I observed them from what I thought was a safe distance. They were a lot more raucous than we were; we usually just talked, quietly, having thoughtful discussions and occasionally telling quaint little jokes. They, on the other hand, were loud, they were mean, and they were cutthroat, even to each other. This was another reason I did not like them. Kenny was the only one who mostly kept his nose out of it, I noticed.

Kenny noticed something, too: me. They were talking, and then one of them said something I imagine they thought was clever, and they all laughed, mean-spiritedly. Even Kenny lifted his head and covered his face with his hand and shook his head; I guess maybe it had been a doozy. I wasn't sure; I couldn't hear. Then when his hand fell away, he was looking right at me.

I wasn't sure if it was intentional or not. Maybe he'd just noticed me skulking around the outskirts of the crowd and he would have eventually caught my eye anyway. Maybe it had been sheer chance. Whatever it was, he didn't look all that surprised to see me there, and when he caught my eye and we both knew I'd been found out, he didn't say anything to reveal me. He just jumped to his feet and waved shortly at his group. They dismissed him and I heard at least one of them promise to catch him later, and then he walked towards me, his hands in his pocket, and a smile on his face.

When I say this, I urge you to keep in mind that the smile was mostly hidden, and you had to be a little imaginative to see it. The thing was, you couldn't see much of his face. Kenny always wore a very deceiving orange parka; orange was his favorite color, brash and obnoxious, (just like him) and since childhood he'd always found a way to obtain a new one every couple of years or so.

Being almost more abhorrent than Tweek's lime shirt, it should have alerted everyone within a hundred yards of his presence. Instead, it always seemed to make him more elusive. On top of that, his face was nearly always covered except for his eyes. So when I say he was smiling, it's because you could see it in his eyes. The little of his face that showed was very expressive; you could imagine the impact his expressions had when unimpeded. Or maybe you can't yet. It's alright. I'll explain in due time.

"You could have just walked over and said hello," he suggested with a hint of mockery when he got close enough.

"You could find people to hang out with who aren't complete assholes," I replied.

"I could," he agreed, not even bothering to rebuke my insult. "I'm guessing you want to talk to me."

"Maybe. I'm guessing you want to talk to me too."

He frowned. Rather, his eyes frowned a little. That little wrinkle in between his eyebrows. "What makes you say that?" he asked.

"You seemed pretty eager to come right up to me when you saw me here," I pointed out.

Kenny just shrugged. He didn't reply. "Want to go somewhere a little less crowded?"

"Please."

I appreciated this exchange a lot. Nice, succinct, to the point. No unnecessary questioning or wondering or asking 'why.' He either just knew or he didn't care, and I didn't care which one it was. When people make my life easier, I'm content enough with that.

A note: I can't say a lot of people in that school would have been willing to find a secluded location to have a discussion with me. It was especially trusting of him, I realized later, when at the time, I looked like I'd just been in a pretty serious fight. Given my appearance and reputation, I'm not sure why Kenny decided it was wise to go with me. It was either bravery, trust, or stupidity. Given what I would later learn about Kenny, I'd say it was about an even mix of the three.

We slipped in between the crowd and found a deserted classroom to loiter in for a private chat. We had a little over ten minutes to hash out whatever we needed to get out in the open, and I figured that would be plenty enough time. Kenny didn't do the runaround thing; he was honest and to the point, like me. I figured this would be easy and painless.

"I'm here to talk to you about the other night," I informed him when we had entered the classroom and shut the door behind us.

"I figured," Kenny said. He was walking around the room, exploring. We didn't know which class it was, but it seemed to be anatomy-based of some sort, maybe an advanced health class; there were various examples of skeletons and bones and skulls on tables and walls and erected on display, and he seemed interested in them. 

Kenny had always been kind of a morbid kid, one of those guys who seemed utterly fearless and yet tenacious about death. We all figured it would lead to him doing something stupid and getting killed one of these days in his early twenties or so.

I decided my usual method was in order: blunt and to the point. "Tweek's worried about what you're gonna say. He doesn't trust you."

Kenny replied right away, and his response was modest. "I don't blame him; I wouldn't trust me either."

"I think we already have some kind of understanding here, so there's no need for me to really explain why I don't think we're going to have a problem," I continued, evenly. "There's really no point in blackmailing someone over graffiti when that someone knows your 'secret' identity, right?"

"You thought I was going to _blackmail_ you?" he repeated. He sounded a little insulted; he actually ceased his curious nosing around and looked over his shoulder at me. The frown was still there, deeper than ever.

"I didn't think that," I rectified. "Tweek does though."

Kenny snorted and began toying with the skulls again. "Kid's nuttier than a Pay Day; what do you expect?"

"I expect that you should shut your damn mouth," I snapped back. Truth was I got a little defensive over Tweek sometimes. People talked shit a lot. They talked shit about him a lot. I'd dealt with his attacks and his episodes too often to not care.

"Cool it, man. You call my friends assholes and I'm calling Tweekers a nutcase. You gotta meet in the middle somewhere."

This was a point I was forced to concede, because the truth was that I did call his friends assholes more often than I called them by name, and the truth was that even I thought Tweek was a little nuts.

Nonetheless, I still sought to correct his other infraction; I couldn't let him get away with everything. "Just don't call him 'Tweekers.' He hates that."

"Okay, fine," he acknowledged. He'd grabbed a skull and he was playing with it in his hands, rolling it over and over again as though it were a magic eight ball and some message containing infinite wisdom might just float into being if he watched it hard enough. He even pulled down his hood to allow himself a better look at it. His hair had been forced flat in the confinement of the hood, and, almost absently, he ran his hand through it and tousled it all about until it was a proper mess again. Finally, he continued. "So, just explain to him that he doesn't have anything to worry about. I ain't gonna talk."

"I need your guarantee that you won't say anything; not even to your shitbag friends-"

"See? There you go again."

"-because this is actually, legitimately upsetting to him, and what might just be a joke for you will end in a panic attack for him. And if he tweaks out over this, I'll be tweaking you."

Kenny mulled my words over for a moment, and then he put one hand to his chest, and held the skull out at arm's length. He recited, pompously, "To Tweek or not to Tweek; that is the question."

"Hysterical," I said dryly. "Except that's the wrong quote for that scene, dumbass."

"Haven't you ever heard of creative liberty?" he asked. Still, he withdrew his arm and went to replace the skull on the desk he had taken it from, only to take another one and begin turning it over in his hands. Without looking at me, he continued to speak. "Look, I told you already. I'm a vigilante. I do things by my rules, not the cops'. I don't think what Tweek did to the bridge was bad. In fact, I kinda admire it. And, look, I don't hate the guy as much as I implied the other night."

"You did sorta imply it," I replied wryly. "Like, 'imply' isn't even the word to use here; 'declared' is more like it."

"Well, I was being an ass. We had a falling out a while ago and I'm kinda holding a grudge over it; sue me. But I don't flat out hate him. Me and him are on the same wavelength when it comes to certain things."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Don't worry about it," he replied, waving his hand off to the side, dismissively. He replaced the skull and dusted off his hands vigorously. "Anyway, you can trust me. I don't know what else you want me to say dude; I can pinky swear and everything if you want. But as I said before and I'll say again and I'll keep sayin' until you decide you can believe me, I ain't gonna say nothin'."

"I believe you," I said. And I did. It was only for Tweek's sake that I was there at all.

"Do you really believe me, or do you just not care?" he said in a tone that was dangerously close to sounding like teasing, and as he asked he turned to face me with that stupid carefree grin. 

"I said I believed you," I stated. "I say exactly what I mean. So I believe you." He nodded, but I wasn't finished. "However, since you ask, no, I don't care. I don't think it's necessary to grovel before you for you to keep your mouth shut, because even if you did tell someone it was us, you have no proof. You have no witnesses who saw us do it. There's really no reason to be afraid of you."

"And yet Tweek sent you here to suck my dick anyway."

"Basically."

"And yet here you are doing it."

"I'm gonna assume that we're still riding on the metaphor and say no, that wasn't my intent."

"What if it wasn't a metaphor?" He was smirking as he said it, but I don't think I could have rolled my eyes further back into my head if I'd tried.

"No thanks."

He just shrugged. "Your loss."

"I'll take your word for it." As I said, Kenny was a well renowned pervert. I didn't think anything of it because there was nothing to think about. Kenny made weak minded jokes like that all the time; it would have been more disturbing to me if we'd gotten through the discussion _without_ him making at least one dick joke.

"Alright, so, let's say hypothetically, I start stalking you guys."

"Stalking?" I repeated, and I gave him a skeptical frown. "How so?"

"Say I start listening in when you guys talk until I hear when your next expedition is gonna be. Then this time, I show up nice and early, and we ambush you and take you both down. What of it?"

I continued to direct a blank stare his way. "Are you really that vindictive?"

"No," he said in an all-too-innocent voice, and he shrugged. "But I was curious what you would say, just in theory."

"I have nothing to say," I replied. "The key to a hypothetical situation is that it should be a situation that, assuming things happen a certain way, it is technically a possibility. Telling me it's not going to happen and then asking me what I would say if it did happen is just stupid."

"Not one for thinking outside the box, are ya?"

"Does it matter what I think?" I answered. "Whether it's in or out of a box?"

"Of course it does; you wouldn't be here if you couldn't think. 'You think, therefore you are," he recited. He was looking at me expectantly, almost hopefully, but it took me a second or two to place the quote, especially since it had not been exact.

"Descartes," I replied, and I saw his eyes light up again. "The key fault with that and everything else he preached being that, yeah, by thinking you prove that you exist, but that doesn't change the fact that proving you exist is pointless if you don't think your existence means anything. So, given that, if you do decide to ambush us at our next mural, is what I say now going to influence your actions in any way?"

"Probably not," he admitted. "Although, like I said, I wasn't planning to in the first place."

"So it doesn't matter, and you're wasting my time."

He shrugged. "If you say so."

Feeling like I was proving his point but conceding that arguing with him wasn't going to change anything, I replied, "Look, I've said my part. If we're done, I'm gonna head off."

"Why?" he asked, curiously.

Impatiently, I responded, "Why does it matter?"

"Are you in a rush to get away from me or something?"

"Not like, especially," I said. It wasn't that his company was repugnant to me or anything, I just thought that if we were done then I should be on my way. To do what, who knew. I guess I could have gone looking for Tweek; I didn't normally leave him by himself in the mornings. But otherwise, I had no where else to be. "The more pertinent question still being why it is you care."

"Because maybe I think you're interesting, maybe I like that you'll talk metaphysics with me. No one else will."

"I'm not talking about it, I'm trying to leave so I _don't_ have to keep talking about it." 

"Does it bother you talking to me?"

The truth was that, no, I didn't mind talking to him. I thought his head was too far up in the clouds and he wasn't being realistic and I was constantly on guard for the inevitable vulgar joke that would be waiting in the wings, but while I continued to advocate that he was wasting my time, I was intrigued by his persistence and by the fact that he even thought to look that deep into anything at all. Metaphysics was not a term that most people I knew were familiar with, let alone something they enjoyed discussing. It was a pretty ridiculous combination though, seeing a guy usually well known for raunchy dick jokes and come ons that bordered on foreplay trying to discuss philosophy. 

Still, I didn't answer him.

Kenny was leaning on the desk now, his hands shoved in his front pocket, looking up at me with uncharacteristic frankness and, I remember thinking at the time, sizing me up. It almost reminded me of a guy who was thinking of fighting me, and initially, it confused me, because I hadn't thought we'd quite gotten to that point. I wasn't about to fight him over any of this; that's not how I meant to come off, and I hadn't thought I'd offended him quite that much.

As though he'd guessed what I was thinking, or perhaps he'd just been going off of my appearance, or maybe even because he was just bored of not receiving an answer for his last question, Kenny asked, "Did you get in a fight or something?"

Subconsciously, my hand went to my left eye and softly traced the puffy skin around it. I had some bruising from my fight with Tweek the day before, and they were fresh. Even my parents had been concerned at first, and me coming home with bruising wasn't really an interesting occurrence. "It's none of your business," I replied, a little coldly if I'm honest.

"Did you come off worst?"

"What part of 'none of your business' was difficult for you to understand?"

"So you lost," he clarified, grinning.

"It's not what you think." He was still looking me up and down and it irritated me, because I didn't know why he was doing it. All the evidence of the fight was on my face; my jeans and jacket hid the rest. I didn't know why else he'd be looking me over. "Look, it's a thing Tweek and I do. We just fight. For the fuck of it."

"That makes sense," he said, sincerely, not sarcastically.

Let me explain that no one else had ever just accepted it like that before. Even Clyde and Token still thought we were being kind of barbaric when our problems could just as easily be solved by NOT punching each other. So his instant acceptance kind of caught me off guard on its own, and as if that wasn't enough, he struck me again.

"So you and Tweek aren't like, a thing, right?" he asked, almost offhand.

"A thing?" I repeated, dumbly.

"I don't know about him, but I know you-"

"Don't even go there with me," I interjected sharply. I'd caught up to speed, and I didn't like where he was heading.

"You're just really defensive about him, and it pissed you off when I-"

I interrupted him again, louder this time. "I _said_, don't _fucking_ go there." He went quiet, but he was still observing me. I could still feel his eyes looking me over. "I'm starting to think you really don't understand what 'none of your business' means."

"But...?" he pressed.

I just sighed. I decided it was worth the effort to give him a straight answer, otherwise I might regret it. Maybe it was going to be his way of punishing us without ratting on us about the bridge; he'd start spreading nasty rumors about us being in some crazy abusive relationship or something. I didn't know what to expect of him, and I didn't trust people. I just had to cover my bases. "We're not together. Not even close. Are you happy?"

"Yeah, actually," he replied. Then he said, very directly, "So I take it you're available?"

"You'd like to know, wouldn't you?" I jeered.

"Maybe I wouldn't mind hitting you up some time," he suggested coyly.

I assumed he was joshing me again. Blatantly straight boys had done this sort of thing to me before; for some reason I could not ascertain, they thought it was amusing to approach me so openly like that, even though I knew they were straight. I wasn't sure if they thought this was clever somehow, but I was used to being teased and taunted in ways that didn't make sense, and I thought nothing of it.

And, look, Kenny was one of those guys you just knew was straight as a damn ruler, alright? Sit at any desk in the school that had once been occupied by Kenny McCormick and there would be little pencil doodles of naked women with unnaturally large breasts defacing some corner of it. He was chief womanizer and the most disgusting pervert I'd ever known.

So my response was simple, brusque, and clear. I said, "Eat me."

Kenny just snickered. His hand was resting against his face, his fingers lying against his cheek, and his pinky was curled out just in front of his mouth. He licked it once before he replied in a fake, sultry voice that reminded me of something out of a bad porno, "Baby, I could eat you all up, but not if you're stone cold like that. I could heat you up a bit first if you like." And then the tip of his pinky disappeared between his lips, and he sucked it.

I'd never had the good fortune of being hit on before, and I wasn't even entirely sure if that was what was happening, but I got this feeling, just this weird vibe right then that Kenny _wasn't_ teasing me; not like people had teased me before. It was a very real possibility that he was coming onto me. So I was confused and flattered and irritated and also kind of turned on.

Let me clarify this, because I think I've hinted at it enough but I think it might need to be spelled out for some people.

I'm gay. I've known since I was eleven. I've been out since I was twelve.

Shocker, right? They just keep on coming.

So this basically spells out the circle of fuckery that is my life: I'm a homosexual mixed race bastard child white trash punk. I love labels baby; keep 'em coming.

The thing was, as I think I've made abundantly clear, I lived in a remote, redneck, conservative little mountain town in the Midwest. Being gay was still widely thought of as a shameful life choice by the older folk, although our generation wasn't too bad, not as bad as it was in the 80's and 90's.

I'm not very good at keeping secrets, nor did I particularly care about anyone's reaction to this simple and honest fact about my life, so I saw no reason to delay coming out, despite the consequences I knew were likely to follow. And, hint, they did.

My parents? Not really thrilled, tried to give me the whole sin-and-hell routine for a bit, but then they just gave up and let me get on with it. I wasn't a flamer and I was quiet about it, so I feel like they usually just ignored it.

The rest of my peer group had varying reactions, but as blunt as I was, after I made it no secret that I was gay, I also made it no secret that I did not find any of the boys in my year attractive.

So, basically, in a kind of backwards, insulting kind of way, none of them really minded me being gay.

You can see, though, why it wasn't all that rude for someone to assume that I was involved with Tweek given how unusual our relationship was. Tweek wasn't exactly drowning in chicks himself, and given that most people thought he was a freak to begin with, it wasn't much of a stretch to think he might also be a fag. Not that I'd ever asked, at least at that point in my life. Hint fucking hint again. They're just all over the fucking place today aren't they?

The only problem with all of this was that I was under the impression that I was alone. Which, if you know anything about me by now, was not a big deal to me. I was very contained and very anti-social and I didn't do much emotional investing into anything, let alone desire anything remotely similar to a relationship. But it's important to note that because of this, I'd never had a chance to test my gaydar, I had never been hit on before, and I was also in every way shape and form, a virgin.

So when I finally reached a conclusion and I was almost positive that Kenny was hitting on me, I had no idea what to do.

I wanted to ask him. Just like that. And I did, almost. I started to, straight out, no shame, balls to the wall; typical Craig. "Kenny, are you-" but something stopped me. Right in the middle of my sentence, my voice died, and the dead words blocked my throat and forbid me from saying anymore.

Let me make a point of this; remember, I was the kid who asked why another boy was black.

Something, something internal, something mental maybe, stopped me from asking if Kenny was gay. Me. The guy with little filter and almost no limits. I couldn't ask a simple question.

"Am I what?" Kenny prodded. He sounded mildly amused, and that stupid grin was all over his face and even his eyes were smiling. I hated it. For some reason, all of a sudden, I thought that it was also kind of cute.

"Nothing," I mumbled. "Never mind. So are we done?"

"Heh. Yeah, I guess." Kenny didn't hesitate to walk past me and head straight for the door, but he did hesitate just a moment to call over his shoulder: "And here I thought you'd be the only one with the balls to ask, Tucker."

He waited another half second for me to respond, and before I could, he opened the door and walked out, still sporting that stupid grin. 

I stood there in the empty classroom, totally losing myself in thought until the first period bell finally rang. Then, robotic, absently, I left the room and headed towards English, where I was dreading seeing him again.

Fortunately, although Kenny glanced at me and grinned a few times, he didn't say anything. When the class was over, he left too quickly for me to confront him again.

I was kind of glad he had just left instead of making a big deal out of it; I was still trying to work out how to handle it, mentally and emotionally. In these regards, I'll admit I'm a little slow on the uptake. It takes a while for these things to process for me. It's why I'm not very good at connecting with people emotionally; it takes a while for their feelings to register. The thing was that this wasn't just any ordinary thing I had to register, it was potential attraction, and only potential at that; not even for sure. It was a simple come on. A romantic inclination. But, just to throw a wrench into things even more, it was from a straight guy. I was pretty lost in my own head for pretty much that whole class.

"What did he say?" Tweek asked me before we parted ways that morning.

I was too startled to answer him properly. How could he possibly know what he'd said? "What do you mean?" I asked, to stall while I could think of a rational explanation. Had Kenny gone and told people already?

"You know, about the the thing," he nudged. "The, uh, the mural."

Christ, it was just that. Tweek was still worried about _that_. I could have laughed at him for worrying over something so inconsequential at this point. I didn't. "He said it's chill. He's not telling anyone."

That still wasn't good enough. Tweek kept digging. "And you believe him, right? You trust what he says?"

"Yeah." I didn't have any more classes with Kenny. I probably wouldn't be able to see him for the rest of the day. I'd have to suffer with this annoying wondering for the rest of the day. All because I didn't know whether or not to believe him. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure he was serious."

"Pretty sure?" Tweek asked, skeptically.

"Okay, I'm sure, alright?"

I wasn't sure; I was not sure at all.


	27. Part Three: Mall Reconnaissance

Mall Reconnaissance

For an emotionally stunted teenager that had never even considered the prospect of finding a romantic partner any time in the near future, the very idea that Kenny might have been coming onto me and I had completely let it slide by frustrated me for days.

I was a little less than a month away from my seventeenth birthday. I was gay but I had never kissed a guy, or anyone for that matter outside my own mother. I was probably thought of as the most impervious boy in our grade when it came to almost anything. Nothing fazed me; nothing affected me. Except, apparently, an extremely uninhibited suggestion from a guy I had once considered unquestionably straight.

Kenny had been well renowned at an early age for being an insufferable pervert. Clyde was where you got your shoes, Tweek was where you got your weed, and Kenny was where you got your porno. Mostly, well-read dirty magazines overflowing with huge tits.

Was that all just a cover-up for his true feelings? Or was I wrong? Kenny was always inappropriate to everyone; male or female. It was hard to tell if I'd attributed his usual disgustingly perverse sense of humor to a come on, or if he'd been sincere.

I'd never actually wondered if someone liked me before.

I didn't normally wonder about anything.

It was the start of a promising career for me, though.

While I would spend the next several weeks wondering over Kenny, a few other things were happening. The whole world wouldn't just come to a stop, just like that, just because there was a possibility that someone had come onto me. Other people in school were worrying about normal things like when quarterly report cards would hit and when the holidays started; Thanksgiving would give us a taste of freedom in late November, and then late December we would have a nice long break for insert-your-preferred-winter-holiday-here. Christmas, for most of us, including me, although as I've probably implied before, I was never exactly what you'd call 'religious.'

Probably the biggest thing on everyone's mind was the winter social that would be hosted the week before we were released on winter break, because for some reason there was nothing quite like a school dance to cause an upset in the entire student body. You'll recall, Jimmy had let us in on it near the beginning of this recollection, and now that it was much closer, it was becoming a much bigger hot topic for some people.

As you can imagine, it was by no means a priority of mine, although as you will learn, just because I don't care about something doesn't mean it won't find a way to insert itself into my life.

But we aren't worrying about all of that yet. It was the weekend before Thanksgiving break. Nothing had really happened since my initial run-in with Kenny, (and for some reason I found myself intentionally avoiding him, despite how much I was thinking about him) other than Tweek very quietly and discreetly passing the 17th year mark. He wasn't one for parties. Neither was I, if it comes to that.

We were meandering around the Park County mall, if partly because the Christmas decorations were up and the festivity was still feeling fresh enough to entertain us, and because we literally had nothing better to do. The mall itself was technically in South Park, so it was often called the South Park Mall, though all of Park County used it. It wasn't very big, two stories sure but not all that much square footage, and to be honest I think it looked like it was trying to be grandiose and failing, like a five year old who got into her mommy's wardrobe to play dress up. About a quarter of the spaces that could have held businesses were empty, and those that were open never saw much business. Still, it slapped on all the bells and whistles needed to inspire some holiday cheer, and it was worth wasting an afternoon in.

Clyde and Tweek were perusing RadioShack. Clyde wanted a new subwoofer in The Car, and Tweek had gone with him to see if anything the mall offered was even compatible.

Token, Jimmy, and I had finished getting some grub at our abysmal food court, and we were casually browsing the vendors propped up in the walk way, glancing inside the stores to the sides but never really going in. We weren't going a very fast pace; Jimmy went slow enough as it was usually, but maneuvering through the crowds took a little more finesse than usual.

On and off as we passed them, I started craning my neck at the jewelry stands, and when we got to the booth specially for piercing, I just had to hold the other two up for a minute. I'd been contemplating piercing my ears for the past year or so, and my parents had said that I could when I turned seventeen, which if you'll recall would be in about a month or so.

The problem was that I didn't really have any money, at least not enough for the pair I wanted. You could get a free pair with a piercing from a limited selection, but they were all little girly ones, and I wanted the studs.

I _actually_ wanted gauges, to be honest, but my parents had given me a resounding 'no' when I made the mistake of telling them. See, I was a good little kid; I talked to my parents when I wanted to do things and if we disagreed, (which was frequently) we would come to a rational compromise. And I listened to my parents. Usually.

"I could cover the ones you want," Token offered when he saw me frowning at the price tags. Then, when I looked up to glower at him, he explained himself. "Double present, Christmas and birthday, that's all."

My birthday was exactly a month after Christmas, January 25th, so while it was annoying having two gift giving days back to back, people would sometimes offer me more expensive things in exchange for being excused from participating in the event in January. This was preferable to me because, as mentioned, I was not one for parties. However, there was one problem with this.

"I don't like gifts," I replied. I didn't. I would give them, because it was expected of me, but I hated asking for gifts and I hated receiving them more. It made me a difficult child at Christmas; nowadays I've learned the art of faking enthusiasm when I received a sweater, but back then, my reactions were generally limited to, "Oh. Thanks."

Token said, "I know dude, but I didn't get you something last year."

"You got me a scarf last year."

"That's not even a present, that's just a scarf."

See? Token got it. Clothes are not presents. Earrings, however, were.

"Please, I really don't want you to buy anything for me. I'm being serious. I don't want you to."

"Come on," he urged as he playfully hit my shoulder, and as he did, I happened to spot the perfect pair of studs in the window, nice silver pyramid studs, not too big and not too expensive. A little out of my price range, yeah, but not Token's, said a little snide voice in my head.

There was another annoying voice back there reminding me that Kenny already had a pierced ear. Just one, and he'd probably done it himself. He wore a little silver earring in it sometimes. Obviously, Kenny was into that, and not all guys liked piercings.

It was his left ear, for the record. In the 80's and 90's it was a thing for guys to pierce their right ear as like a secret code to indicate that they were gay, and while most people had forgotten that little nugget of trivia in the new millennium, I think most guys were still aware that it was a thing, just in case.

Not that it matters. I just wanted to put that out there in case someone thinks I'm really _that_ dense.

In the end, I wound up getting it done. The piercing took five minutes and it was almost painless, like a little pinch in each ear. And then I walked away with a little smile on my face while I played with the studs in my ears, twisting them around and around contentedly.

"They look g-g-good," Jimmy commented.

"Yeah? You don't think they look gaudy?"

"Well, yes actually I do." See, Jimmy got it too. Be upfront with your opinions. "But what do I know about fashion?"

"I don't think they look gaudy," Token assured me, which meant slightly less, because I knew that Token didn't particularly care for piercings himself. Still, he'd been the one to pay for it. "I'm just really glad you didn't get gauges like the chick who pierced you. THAT looks gaudy."

"Y-yeah," Jimmy agreed. "Who ever heard of p-p-putting another giant hole in your ear when you've already got an ear h-hole?"

Poor kid was determined to be funny and often fell just short. You can't fault him for trying, I guess.

Token laughed regardless, but I just quietly twisted my studs and didn't answer. I still thought gauges were cool, but what did it matter now? I was happy with what I had anyway.

You'll recall that my parents had said I could pierce my ears after I turned seventeen, and this magical time period was still a month away.

Oops.

I did say I listened to my parents "usually."

We only went a few more minutes before Token stopped us at an Orange Julius for drinks. He said he wanted to sit down and enjoy them, but I had a feeling that this wasn't really the point; he just didn't like making Jimmy walk for more than twenty minutes or so at a time. I thought this was kind of discriminative of him to be honest, (especially because Jimmy wasn't a weak guy; you never saw this fucker's arms, they were huge) but what were you gonna say? That Token was being too considerate?

Granted, I thought excessive compassion was in fact a flaw, but I digress.

Clyde and Tweek eventually found us and joined us with drinks of their own. Clyde had been unsuccessful, and Tweek seemed to feel like this was his fault. "I'm sorry man, none of them would've connected right, it's just that it's an old car and it-"

"It's not a big deal," Clyde cut him off more than once. We got the feeling that he had been saying this or some variation of it since they had left the store. Clyde sounded unusually short with him, and we guessed it was from the repeated apologies, not quite from the lack of a sound system. Clyde was usually friendly with everyone, but Tweek irked him, and I'm sure Tweek was picking up on it all too easily.

As usual, the group slightly split down the middle to accommodate them.

"Do you hate a date for the social, Clyde?" Token asked.

"No, not yet." Clyde grasped onto the distraction like a life preserver. "I guess you're going with Nichole?"

"Duh, we've only been dating for like five years."

Meanwhile, I'd slid closer to Tweek. He had a coffee ice cream smooth, and I switched it with my Orange Julius.

"You don't need that," I told him flatly. "You're wound up enough as it is. You must've drunk a gallon of coffee today."

Tweek's face twitched into a frown. "Coffee calms me down man, you know that."

"It makes you _think_ you're calming down," I corrected.

"I want it," he said stubbornly, and he reached across the table for it, fighting through my hand. At this rate I figured he would wind up knocking one of them over if I didn't just let him have it, so I did. What did you want me to say? I had tried.

Coffee is a stimulant. For people like Tweek, coffee did actually appear to calm him down. Ritalin did the same thing. I just didn't like that he used it as a crutch.

We'd been over this before; we've argued about it before. Spent the better part of seventh grade not talking to each other over it. It didn't matter. Tweek would do what he wanted and I didn't care enough. That was how it was.

"Either one of you have a date?" Token asked us. He may as well have asked if either of us had happened to spot the Holy Grail recently. Tweek was very much like me; not remotely interested in dating.

"No," I said simply. I sipped Orange Julius through my straw and made no sign of having anything more to say on the subject.

Tweek copied me almost exactly, except he twitched with a grunt in between all of it. "Ngh, nuh uh." And he sipped coffee ice cream.

"Are you guys even g-going?" Jimmy asked. "I don't recall seeing you at any of the previous dances, C-Craig."

"Good memory," I praised. I meant it sincerely; looking back he probably took it as me being snarky.

"You two should come," Clyde urged us, though I'd say he was focused a bit more on me than Tweek. "Come on; you guys never do anything fun."

"We never do anything you consider fun," I corrected. "We do plenty on our own that is fun for us. To us, a dance is just banal social involvement. Maintaining an illusion for the sake of social status for hours. Subjecting ourselves to senseless mental tedium just to fit in with everyone else. The exact opposite of fun."

I had a tendency to drone and lose Clyde before I exactly made my point. This circumstance was no different. He stared cluelessly at me throughout my explanation while Tweek just nodded along, agreeing with everything, still contentedly slurping.

Luckily, Jimmy butted in before Clyde could come up with a satisfactory reply. "Speaking of w-whi-which, I meant to ask about Stark's Bridge. Is that your h-handiwork, Tweek?"

"Ngh, erm, yeah..." I could feel his foot suddenly and rapidly tapping the tile beside my shoe. Tweek looked properly ashamed of himself at first, (he always hated being reminded of his miscreant deeds) and then he smiled hesitantly. "D'you like it?"

"Love it," Jimmy confirmed with no hesitation. "Really visionary. You could do something worthwhile with your talent if you tr-tried." For a guy who was so eager to persuade Tweek to stop, he sure laid it on thick after it was done. I guess it was just because, like Kenny, whether it was illegal or not, he still appreciated the effort put into it. As one artist to another, I guess he thought.

"Oh no," Tweek mumbled, stirring his smoothie with his straw around and around and not looking anywhere near Jimmy. "I couldn't, no way man, nuh uh, not a chance."

"Shoot for the moon or land among the s-stars, right?" He grinned expectantly for the reaction to this joke.

Tweek let out a very weak little 'ha ha,' the dry sort of half-laugh that made me certain he didn't think it had been funny in the slightest. "Yeah, I guess so."

Tweek's sense of humor wasn't much more advanced than mine. It wasn't much more tolerant than mine, either, nor was his ability to withstand praise he deemed uncalled for. Soon, Jimmy had flustered him beyond all repair, and I turned my attention back to the other two. They'd stopped discussing dates, anyway.

"Do you want to show up like right when it starts or a little later?" Token asked.

Clyde fidgeted. "Ah, I'd actually rather show up a little earlier."

Token was incapable of hiding the shock on his face, although to be honest, it was almost a little difficult for me too. Clyde wanted to be _early_? "How come?" Token asked.

"Oh, you know, maybe just walk around a bit first, see who's gonna be there."

"You wanna be early for that?"

"Yeah, sure, why not?"

Jimmy interjected again. "Actually, it'd be g-g-great if you g-guys showed up a little early; I'm g-going to help s-set up some of the d-deco-de-decorations, and I could use a h-hand."

Again, Clyde clutched onto this like a life preserver. "Totally, we'll all show up like an hour early to help you. If you guys don't mind?" he asked, glancing to each of us in turn, although he didn't spend too much time on Tweek, who was still determinedly hiding behind his plastic cup.

"I guess so," Token answered, a little bemused about this unexpected development but certainly not upset. "It doesn't bother me either way."

"I'm not going anyway," I said again, and this brought another wave of balking from Clyde, as though he'd already completely forgotten my earlier rant. I loved the kid, but overbearing wasn't nearly enough to describe him.

Some time after we'd all finished our drinks, Token offered to collect all of the trash up for everyone and throw it away, and for some reason he insisted that I help him. I rolled with it and acquiesced, letting Jimmy keep the peace between the other two for the mean time.

When this happened, it usually had something to do with Clyde. I say Clyde was my best friend, but the truth was that Token was the one who always looked out for him. With his dad and the shaky home life Clyde had, I guess he felt responsible for him. I didn't feel the need to involve myself with anyone unless it was necessary. 

I actually think that might have been why Clyde reached out to me more; he liked that I was so aloof, like maybe because of it, he felt like he could share more with me because it would be less embarrassing. Token just wanted to get _involved_, and if Kenny was any indication, people coming from bad situations really, really don't want people to be involved.

"There's this thing with Clyde I'm worried about-"

"Does he know you're talking to me about it?" I interrupted.

Token looked momentarily sheepish. "No, but it's not about his dad or anything. It's worse."

"Worse?" I repeated, raising a brow.

"He's pining after Bebe again," he said. Though I was inclined to under react to most things, hearing this made me roll my eyes and release a mildly disgusted noise. "I know, I know. He was telling me the other night and I already gave him the whole nine."

"And there goes the rest of Junior year," I said, shaking my head. "He's doomed, yet again, from the start. The very definition of insanity."

"Look, I think he's planning on asking her out at the social," he continued. "I know you said you weren't going, but-"

"I'm not."

"Clyde's not going to listen to me-"

"I'm not going."

"He listens to you!" Token said helplessly. "For some god forsaken reason, he listens to you. You can talk sense into him. Tell him this is the fourth time since third grade he's tried going out with this girl and he needs to get his head out of his ass before he winds up like he did _last_ time." Last time being last school year, our final day of sophomore year, whereupon Bebe had broken up with him and he had spent the first half of the summer in a heartbroken funk that had left us all more depressed than if we had still been in school.

"Why don't we both just go talk to him now?" I suggested. "Actually, all of us. Tweek and Jimmy will tell him he's being stupid too. I think it's a unanimous agreement with everyone that if Clyde really does this to himself again, he's a certified dipshit."

"And you know exactly what he's going to do," Token told me. "He's going to laugh it off and agree and say that we're right and tell us he's not going to ask her out again. And do you know what he's going to do the night of the social?"

"Ask her out again," I answered promptly.

"Exactly," Token concurred, sounding relieved that I was following along. "I'll keep trying to discourage him for now. But if you're there, you can keep an eye on him, tell him not to do it. I can't babysit him the whole night man; I've got my own girl to worry about. You know?"

"I'm not going to cockblock Clyde all night," I informed him. "If I talk to him and he still really wants to do it, I'm not going to stop him. It's none of my business."

Token just sighed. "Fine. But will you at least just agree to go? Just to talk to him? You might be able to persuade him."

"I really don't want to..."

I should have known better than to accept an early Christmas gift. I wondered if he'd been planning it all along, or if it had just worked out in his favor through sheer circumstance. Regardless, I was blatantly reminded of why it was that I hated accepting gifts, whether it was an act of kindness or in recognition of a holiday or not.

"Come on, Craig," Token pressed. "Just do this little favor, just for me? I got your earrings, didn't I?"

I thought about it. I thought about sacrificing three or four hours of my time just to try and keep my best friend from intentionally throwing his heart through a meat grinder again. Knowing I would probably not be successful, it sounded like a tremendous waste of my time; I had never been to a high school dance in three years, and until a few minutes ago I had never had any intention of attending one. Now it seemed inevitable, if only because my choice was either go to one of these stupid things and try to rescue Clyde's love life, or knowingly allow them to get back together so that I and all of my friends could suffer when they finally broke up yet again.

"Fine," I said sullenly. "I'll try to get Clyde to leave early or something. But if I can't stop him and he goes after her and it all starts again, I'm not sticking around."

Token nodded. "Alright. That's fair."

We both glanced back over at the table where Jimmy was keeping Clyde engaged with another fantastic flat-on-his-face joke. Clyde was clearly confused by it and he was asking Jimmy to explain it, and Jimmy seemed to be having trouble explaining exactly why it was funny. Tweek was smiling, though; I guess he'd somehow found it amusing.

"Just actually try, though, okay?" he urged me. "Be sure to bring up the Fourth of July. When he ran into her and tried to get back with her then and then crashed and burned."

"He was inconsolable for days," I said. "Yeah, I remember."

"Tell him there's other fish out there, man. He's way too nice a guy to keep intentionally fucking himself over. I'm not ready to hear him moaning about how he ruined his own life again."

"I'll try," I promised.

Just like my attempt to reason with Tweek, I would try and I would fail, but Clyde wouldn't be ruining his life that December, at least not December of 2006. He would be doing it about a year from then, in 2007, and it would be on the bridge he had warned me was going to be trouble from the start. Or maybe it wasn't his life he was ruining, but mine. I'm not really sure; it was certainly Clyde's decision that had led me to making one of my own that would arguably ruin my life, but to say it was Clyde's fault was pretty unfair, especially when later, it would be largely due to Clyde that my life was saved.

As I have said before, everything was my fault, and I want you to keep that in mind. I want you to remember that as we draw closer and closer to the person that, like the symbol on the bridge, eventually changes everything.


	28. Part Three: The Pet Store is Alive

The Pet Store is Alive (with the sound of parrots)

Now that my attendance to the winter social seemed inexorable, my annoying thoughts about Kenny expanded to include whether or not he might be attending himself. Not like, because I wanted to go _with_ him or anything, I was just wondering if he would also be there. If so, I might finally be able to approach him about what he'd said and demand a cogent explanation so that I could finally put this tiresome wondering to rest.

If I was going to have to bear through something unpleasant, I may as well find some way to make it productive in the meantime. That's what I thought.

It wasn't long before the social, maybe a week or so, and I was at work, as usual. Though weeks had passed since the exchange, I hadn't spoken to Kenny since his remark, despite seeing him in English every day. Worse yet, we'd begun to exchange _looks, _if that doesn't sound like the most pathetic teenage drivel you've ever heard. I would glance over at him every now and then, and sometimes he would catch me and glance at me too, and I would divert my eyes as fast as I could. Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I would swear he was looking at me too, but when I looked up, he'd be gone. Other times, I would swear I could see him smirking. And there I'd be, quietly steaming to myself over my cowardice and yet determinedly pretending that I was deaf and blind to all of it.

While my increase in brooding secrecy had been largely ignored by the rest of my group, Tweek had not failed to notice that I was acting strangely and being significantly more taciturn than usual, which of course must have been pretty alarming given that I'm not very talkative to begin with.

Tweek had shown up to the pet store that day under the pretense of buying bird food for his cockatiel, but even after gathering a good five pound bag of feed, he continued to follow me around as I poured handfuls of seeds into the bird cages, bothering me every now and then with some fresh spin on "what's wrong" since I was avoiding answering him directly.

"You always look around when we're eating lunch n-now," he said.

"I'm fine," I replied.

"I'm fine!" Archimedes repeated.

Archimedes was a large African Gray parrot, and he was currently hitching a ride on my shoulder. African Grays are exceptionally intelligent animals, probably the smartest birds alive. And they are very expensive. Archie had been in the pet store for almost a year and a half.

"Did you get in a fight with one of Stan's gang?" Tweek asked, not to be deterred. "Every time they come around, you bow your head and t-try to ignore them."

"Do I really need a reason to ignore Stan and his ilk?" I asked snidely. I meant it rhetorically; I guess Tweek took it seriously. He was starting to pull nervously at his hair.

"Well, I know you d-don't like them, but you don't usually go out of your way to ignore them."

"They irk me," I said, and as I came upon a cage of bustling budgies, I opened the hatch, reached in, and poured them a good amount of seeds.

"Is it Kenny?" Tweek asked very pointedly. "Did he s-say something to you about the-"

"No, Tweek. I don't know how many times I need to say it. We're in the clear. Stop worrying. There's nothing to fear."

"The only thing to fear is fear itself," Archimedes said sagely. Someone in the store had at some point taught him several little dollops of wisdom like this; he often threw them out there in response to key words, that and a butt-load of random song lyrics. I stroked his head, approvingly, and I continued along.

"Nhggh, but, but..." Tweek was pulling on his hair harder now, and I stopped, turned, grabbed his wrist, pulled it away from his head, and lead it to his other wrist, around which were half a dozen rubber bands. He didn't comment; he took the hint, and he started pinching the rubber bands, pulling each one a few inches away from his wrist and then letting it fly back with a smart SNAP. "This all started after you went to talk to Kenny," he finally asserted. Now that his hand was busily pulling and snapping his rubber bands, his voice sounded a lot surer and steadier, and he stopped stuttering.

"No, you're just perceiving some sort of imaginary change in what is completely normal behavior for me, and due to a lack of an actual stimulant that would cause this behavior, you're blaming your baseless conjecture on Kenny, the only possible culprit you've deemed worthy despite any measurable reaction on his part, because you are a high-strung paranoid freak obsessed with conspiracies and you refuse to accept that everything is just fine." As I have said, I have a tendency to drone. This was all said in a low voice, sort of monotonous. Unlike Clyde, though, Tweek was not put off by it, and it only made him bite his lip.

"It's all good!" Archimedes assured Tweek once I had finished. I rubbed the top of his beak for a moment, and then continued on. One more display, canaries, and then the birds would be fed. I'd carry Archie around for a bit more after leaving the birds, if only to give him a little bit of free time out of his cage.

"You're ranting," he quietly observed.

"I am not ranting."

"You rant when you're nervous."

"I am not nervous."

"I've known you for a long time, man," Tweek said. "You like to think that you come off as this emotionless black hole, but I like to think that I know you a little better than that."

"I'd like to think that one day people will stop bothering me by trying to dig into my psyche to reveal all of this wildly imagined trauma, but I have a feeling that's not going to happen any time soon. People seem incapable of just accepting the fact that there's nothing to worry about."

"Just keep swimming, just keep swimming," Archimedes advised me. The fish display was right next door to the birds; odds were he'd picked this one up after years of children skipping next to the clownfish tank and singing Dory's famous song.

"Look, I'm not asking you because I'm trying to fuck with you, I'm asking because I'm worried. You're coming off as really-" He was searching for a word and I glanced over at him to expectantly wait for it, but my gaze drifted a little higher, and when I saw it, the look on my face must have soured instantly, because Tweek noticed right away. "What's wrong?"

"God damn it," I muttered.

"What's wrong?" he asked again, worriedly; maybe he thought I was mad at him or something.

"That," I said with a nod, and he looked over his shoulder.

Kenny had entered the store, and he was headed right for us.

The moment he saw him, Tweek immediately turned back to me with an expression of hypertensive fear. He began talking very fast, hardly a pause in between each word. "Shit shit shit shit..." 

"Shut up, I already told you-"

"He's gonna black mail us," he squeaked. He'd forgotten his rubber bands again and he was pulling at his hair while he continued to rapidly chatter. "He's gonna say he sold us out they were saying they were offering a reward for information Kenny must have heard his family's poor man he must have needed money and gone right back to the cops-"

"Tweek. Shut up," I hissed. Kenny was too close for him to keep going on like that. He did shut up, but while his mouth was shut, I imagined him still hashing out every last possible thing he could think of that Kenny would do, assuming it was about the bridge. I didn't know how to tell him that, more likely, he was there because of me.

"Hi guys," he said when he was close enough, like he was so familiar with us he just walked up and said "how do you do?" all the time. I couldn't remember the last time we had spoken casually like that, and yet Kenny didn't seem to think it was a big deal at all.

Tweek was still repressing his hysteric squeaking about blackmail, (he was practically red in the face over it) and he could only nod his head, shortly.

Me, I actually verbalized my reply, but I opted to keep it short and sweet. There was no need to be any friendlier with Kenny than was necessary. "Hey."

"What are you guys up to?" he asked, although I thought it was perfectly obvious what we were up to.

"I'm working," I said curtly. And then I added, for Tweek's sake, "Tweek was buying bird food." I didn't know if he could be trusted to talk yet, and I didn't want to force him to answer a stupid question. Regardless, I went about dropping food in the canary's food tray, and Tweek followed along behind me, clutching the little bag of seeds for dear life. Both of us had our backs turn to him, and neither of us made any attempt to reach out to him after that. It was like he had already come and gone as far as we were concerned.

"Cool." I don't think he really knew how to take being shut out by two people at once. Luckily, Kenny was not overly obnoxious, and he could take a hint. "I was just here for cat food, so...I guess I'll catch you guys later."

"Alright," I said. And I waved him away, easy as that.

You'll recall that at the start of this chapter, I had _just_ said that I still wanted to talk to Kenny, but I'm sure you'll understand that I wanted to do it alone. Tweek was by no means an ideal companion for learning whatever angle Kenny had been getting at in that classroom.

And besides, that's just what I did. I was cold to everyone, including people I actually wanted to be around. Most idiotic children my age did this for some reason because it somehow seemed to them to be the only logical thing to do. Nowadays, I look back at myself and wonder what on earth was wrong with me. If you haven't yet by now, you'll probably start to soon, or else you're probably still a kid yourself.

It's alright; just because kids are stupid doesn't mean that they can't still be important. Kenny was a prime example of that.

"Oh man, oh fuck man, oh fuck..." Tweek had started up again as soon as Kenny was out of earshot.

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" Archimedes reprimanded.

"Kenny's family has like a million cats," I said calmly. "Everyone knows that. There's always hordes hanging around their place. If Kenny wanted to buy cat foot, then he would go to a pet store. Like this one. The fact that we were here when he showed up is a coincidence."

"There's no such thing as a coincidence man..." Cat and dog paraphernalia were clear across the store, but Tweek was craning his neck and looking around the bird displays, trying to catch a glimpse of something worth seeing. I was about to head back to the storage room replace the bird food when Tweek announced, "I'm gonna go after him."

"You're what?" I answered blankly.

"I'm gonna go talk to him myself, see what it is he's still after." The more he spoke, the more sure of himself he sounded. I thought of Tweek finding out the real reason Kenny was there, and, despite my usual coolness, I started to panic.

"Why would you do that?"

"Because I really don't think this is over, man. He wants something; I can tell. Him showing up just now wasn't an accident; I just know it."

"You're gonna piss him off and offend him and make him WANT to rat on us," I told him sharply. Then, it came to me, and I tried to sound reluctant, not eager, as I suggested my compromise. "Look, let me talk to him again. You buy your bird food and bail for now."

"_I_ want to talk to him," he replied stubbornly.

"Just let me do the talking, alright? I'll get him off our backs and if he tries to pull anything, I'll beat the shit out of him. I won't let him get either of us in trouble. When have I ever steered you wrong?"

"Why can't we go together?" he retorted.

"Ah..." I had no clear reason at first, and Tweek noticed my hesitance. He called me on it.

"You think I can't handle confrontation," he accused. His cheeks were starting to flush. "You think I'm too weak and I'm gonna w-wuss out."

"Did I say that? Did those words ever come out of my mouth?" He was silent. "Then don't fucking assume things about me, alright? If I thought that, I would have said that. I know better than anyone that you can handle yourself in a fight." We'd brawled a few days prior and I had a fresh black eye. I pointed to it then to make my point.

For as insulted as he'd been when he thought I considered him weak, he caved in pretty fast when I made it seem like I was mad at him. "S-sorry," he mumbled. "I d-didn't mean..."

"Just, look, let me take care of it. If we keep arguing about it, he's gonna buy his shit and leave before either of us gets to talk to him. Just trust me and I'll handle it, alright?"

Reluctantly, he grabbed his bird food closer to his chest and he agreed. "Alright."

"Don't worry. It'll be fine," I promised.

"It's all good!" Archimedes promised along with me.

Tweek left to go check out his bird seed, and after I returned the feed to storage, I skimmed the aisles hunting for Kenny. As he had said, he was standing around in the cat food aisle, pulling at the giant bags and reading their weights and then pushing them back in and pulling out more. I watched him do this a few times, and then he took a step back, thoughtfully looking the shelf up and down and mumbling to himself. Then he checked two bags again, and he stood back a second time, contemplating.

I was not one for hesitating when it came to confronting someone, but I suppose I had taken too long for the bird still clutching my shoulder, and before I could enter on my own terms, he gave me away by screeching and spreading his wings. "Are you gonna buy somethin' or just oogle it all day?"

Kenny's head snapped towards us, surprised at first, and then he just chuckled. "Cute bird," he called to me.

Archimedes made an embarrassed sort of noise and hid his face under his wing. "You flatter me, Captain."

Since my cover was broken anyway, I moved closer towards Kenny, trying to keep it casual, like I hadn't just been caught stalking him. He continued looking up and down at the bags, stroking his cheek with one finger and absently tapping his foot. He didn't appear surprised or intrigued by my appearance. As though he'd been expecting me to come by eventually, I thought.

When I came up beside him, I said, "Is it that difficult?"

"To pick?" Kenny replied. "Yeah, sort of. I only have so much money to spend, so I need to get as much weight for as little money as possible. I'm still doing the math."

"That one is the cheapest for its weight," I replied instantly, pointing at the bag of cat food in question. "If you don't mind getting the heaviest bag we own and the most shit brand of cat food we sell."

"That one's too expensive. But other than that, I don't mind heavy," he assured me. "As for shit, well, it's food. At least they have something to eat."

"Shitty cat food contains fillers like corn and wheat that do nothing productive for a cat's digestive system," I rattled off, but Kenny didn't let me really get into my groove like I usually did.

"They're cats," Kenny interjected out, bluntly. "And I eat PopTarts for dinner three or four times a week. They aren't stayin' at the Four Seasons, dude. I'm the only one in my family who cares enough to feed them. They're gonna get what I can afford. In case you forgot, we're kinda poor."

"I'm just a poor boy, and nobody loves me!" Archimedes sang, and Kenny jerked his thumb at the bird with a smirk.

"See, he gets it."

"He's just a poor boy, from a poor family!"

"Okay, then, giving them lower quality food is not only unhealthy but it also requires more of it to sustain them. If you get a higher quality food of lesser weight, you would have to feed them less, therefore, you're not really getting less food by paying for a better brand because it would last the same amount of feedings only utilizing less food."

Kenny thought this over, and then, hopelessly, he began scanning the rest of the cat food rather than the couple of bags he had narrowed it down to, and he threw up his hands. "Fuck it, I'm tired of math anyway. Then which fuckin' bag can I buy for forty bucks that'll give 'em the most for the least or whatever?"

"That one." I pointed it out. It was only a thirty pound bag, and Kenny seemed skeptical.

"That's not gonna last a week."

A week on a thirty pound bag of cat food? Now_ I_ was skeptical. "How many cats do you have, exactly?"

"I don't feed the ones that run 'round outside, just the inside ones," he informed me. "Just five right now."

_Just_ five. _Only_ five cats. In a family that couldn't afford to feed its own kids. "How much do you usually give them?"

He shrugged. "Whatever they'll eat."

I closed my eyes and tried not to slap my palm over my face. I took a deep breath, but I could do nothing to stifle the sarcasm in my reply. "Maybe you should try feeding them what's on the bag instead of just dumping food at them until they stop eating it."

Kenny did not seem remotely deterred by my tone. "Fine, I'll get it. But I'm holding you personally responsible if this food doesn't last me at least two weeks," he vowed, and he grabbed the bag I'd indicated earlier.

"You do that," I said. I opened my eyes again. "It won't get you anywhere, but you feel free to do that."

"I swear, Tucker, if you made me buy the fancy cat food for nothin', I'll come for you."

Before I could reply, Archimedes burst into song again. "Bad boys, bad boys! Whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?"

Kenny finished slinging the bag over his shoulder, and he grinned at the parrot. "I like this bird," he said, and he got closer and stroked under his chin.

"Archimedes," I introduced.

"That's my name! Don't wear it out!"

"Ah, again with the philosophers," Kenny joked, and he cracked that devious little grin at me, and I knew. He hadn't forgotten. The question was whether it had meant anything.

"Yeah, he's been here a long time and he's picked up a lot of weird stuff, songs, movie quotes, you know. He doesn't always sing, though," I added, as though that made any difference. "But African Grays are really smart. They pick up phrases really quickly. They're magnificent birds."

"Magnifico." Kenny complimented the bird directly, but Archie didn't reply; I think he only knew that one line from the song. So he tried another one. "You're a pretty bird," he said, in that annoying voice people used when they were being affectionate to animals.

"Here's lookin' at you, kid," Archie replied. Being a bird, he didn't quite get the accent down, but also _considering_ he was a bird, it was pretty damn good.

Kenny sounded surprised, and he surprised me when he said, "That's a Bogart reference." Everyone knew Bogie's famous _Casablanca_ line, but somehow, those days, few actually knew the name of the actor who had famously improvised it.

"Yeah, he likes old movies like that."

"My mom loves old movies," he explained. "I've seen like all of Bogie's films at least once."

"That's nice," I said in my best, most expressive I-really-don't-care voice.

"What's your favorite Bogie film, Archimedes?" he asked, still talking in that annoying pet lover voice. _"The Maltese Falcon?"_

"He's a parrot, not a falcon."

Kenny gently stroked the bird's head and opted to ignore me. "Do you just pick a victim when you're feeding them and carry them around with you all day?"

"Sort of-" Then it occurred to me. "Shit, I didn't actually feed him, though."

"Well, go feed him. This shit ain't too heavy," he assured me with a shrug of the shoulder bearing the cat foot's weight. "I can follow you around for a bit."

"Why?" I asked, and again, when he said it, he seemed to me like he wanted to talk to me.

"I noticed Tweek left," he reasoned. "I figured you should have someone following you around and bothering you."

The way he looked, I gathered that this was supposed to strike me as funny. It did not. I rolled my eyes and left to retrieve the bird seed I had already taken out once today.

"Heard the city's given up looking for the vandals what trashed the bridge," he offered when our trek to the back of the store was silent, and I remember the original reason I had gone to pursue Kenny.

"That's good I guess. They always give up after a while. So, theoretically, even if they did get a lead at this point, they wouldn't act on it?"

"Is Tweek _still_ flippin' about whether or not I'm gonna tell on y'all?" Kenny asked tiredly.

"A little," I admitted.

"Well, tell him I got sources in the police station who tell me that even if they did catch who was behind it, they wouldn't waste their time prosecutin'. They got enough on their plates as it is rather than waste time chargin' some stupid kids with a little graffiti."

"That's nice to know. He probably won't feel much better for it, though."

He shrugged one shoulder, the free one. "Well, I already told you I wouldn't rat on you anyway. If you didn't believe me then, I dunno what'll make you believe me now."

"I believed you," I told him.

"And then I saw her face!" Archimedes belted out, startling both of us. "Now I'm a believer!" Kenny picked up on the next verse, and they sang it together: "Not a trace! Of doubt in my mind!" And I slipped into the back room as Kenny said again, enthusiastically: "I love that bird!"

While I escaped him for a minute, I thought of how best to approach the other, more pertinent issue I wanted to talk about now that my obligation had been handled. He held back outside, waiting, and I thought, and nothing came to me; I couldn't think of how exactly to ask him, "Were you coming onto me?" without sounding like an inane idiot. Especially when, after that whole exchange, Kenny had never even looked at me funny. He'd brought up the classroom, but that was it, and he might have only done it to mock me.

Instead of emerging with a plan, I just grabbed the feed and marched out of the back room again. Kenny was there, waiting patiently, and he got right back into step behind me as I headed towards the displays.

"So, ah, how expensive are African Grays?" he asked, almost timidly.

"You have five cats," I told him humorlessly. I couldn't even muster the sarcasm at this point.

"I was just curious, that's all."

"Try about a cool grand, and that's before a cage and food." 

Kenny whistled. "Yeah, forget I asked."

"I told you."

"How the fuck do people spend that much on a goddamned bird?"

"He's a really great bird," I said in his defense. "They live until they're like 60 or 70."

"Yeah, but for a grand he'd better clean my house and do my dishes and make my bed every morning until _I'm_ 60 or 70."

We arrived at his cage, and when I opened his little door and let him hop back in, he went straight to his food dish and put his talons on it, tapping it repeatedly. "Please sir, I want some more," he begged.

As he requested, I poured the seed into his tray, and he flapped his wings once or twice as the seeds rattled into the plastic.

"There you go, pal," I said, retrieving the bag of seed from his cage.

"You have saved our lives. We are eternally grateful," Archimedes praised me. Kenny just laughed at him again. 

"Bye Archie," I said, and I waved. "Bye bye!"

Archimedes sang, nodding his head back and forth as he did so. "So long! Farewell! Auf wiedersehen, goodbye!"

"He knows a lot of movies," Kenny commented as we left Archimedes to his food. "Movies and songs. It's the goddamned 'Sound of Parrots' in here."

Despite myself, I cracked a little smile; not because the pun amused me, (I do not like puns, thus my disinterest in his _Maltese Falcon_ quip) but because it was yet another movie that Kenny knew. For some reason, the fact that he caught onto them pleased me, as it had inexplicably pleased me when he kept bringing up metaphysics. I had spent a good amount of my life trying to distance myself from Kenny as much as possible, and it was finally becoming clear that if you could get past the perverted part of him, he wasn't all that bad. 

"He probably hears some of what comes up on the radio," and I nodded vaguely overhead, meaning the speakers that played music throughout the store all day. "As for movies, I don't know. I guess people just say stuff and he picks it up somehow."

"So I've been meaning to ask if you were going to this social thing in December," Kenny informed me, and it was too abrupt for me to put up any of my usual defensive measures or to even think of something snappy to say back. So my answer wound up being plain and truthful.

"Yeah."

"Cool." He seemed pleased with this response, and he seemed to be casually ignoring how flustered this sudden assault made me. "I was tagging along with my friends, but you know how they get at parties. I was thinking, you know, if you get bored, maybe we could hang out."

I made the furious realization that Kenny was doing _it_ again. He was being vague. He wasn't giving me a clear answer. Was he asking for my company in the event that we found our respective groups a drag? Or was he trying to ask me to go with him but being subtle about it? I fucking hated games. I just wanted people to tell me what they wanted. And he wasn't even giving me any time to think about it.

"I don't know," I answered slowly, trying not to tip him off in either way. "I've got something to handle with Clyde first, and I don't know how long that'll take."

"Yeah dude, it's fine. I just wanted to offer 'cuz I figured you hate sociable things like that anyway, so, you know. If we hang out cool, if not, hey, no harm no foul."

I paused, probably a few seconds too long before I made my response. "Thanks." I couldn't think of what else I wanted to say.

"Well, this shit's actually starting to get kinda heavy." Kenny shifted the bag of cat foot to his opposite shoulder, and he grinned at me. It was clear that he was very suddenly trying to make a get-away, but I couldn't think of any reason to stop him and keep him around, even though I now had a plethora of questions I ought to have been asking him. "I'll see you around."

"So long," I said, and then, speaking, not singing, I continued. "Farewell. Auf wiedersehen, goodbye."

Kenny picked up the next line, and he did sing it as he walked away. "I hate to go, and leave this pretty sight!" And he glanced over his shoulder and winked at me as he said it.

This fucking asshole.

As if I didn't already have enough to worry about.


	29. Part Three: Going With Your Gut

Going with Your Gut

I couldn't get through this story without giving you some kind of explanation about Clyde. Clyde was the most important person in my life back then before Kenny, although Tweek has been hogging quite a lot of the spotlight with all of his little antics, so I haven't had a chance to properly introduce him. Tweek pops up a lot because he gets me in trouble a lot; Clyde is easy going and simple to get along with, and therefore, not much of the story involves him (despite a good deal of my life involving him) because Clyde never really did anything to get me in trouble.

But with the social pending and my promise to Token, it seems like the perfect opportunity to go ahead and introduce him a little more.

Clyde and I were not two people that, at first glance, wouldn't seem like the type to be friends, let alone best friends. This is assuming you didn't know Clyde before, as a kid.

Clyde and I were very similar when we were young. We didn't like getting in trouble and we mostly kept to ourselves, other than occasionally submitting to the desire to spit out a bit of sarcasm. If you think _I'm_ a snarky bastard, you should have met Clyde when he was a kid. People even said our voices sounded alike, (for the record, they didn't, people are just really stupid) and despite the fact that we looked nothing alike, people would sometimes confuse us. The only difference was that he fancied himself a ladies' man at a young age, (natural confidence exacerbated this) and I was only just figuring out that, yeah, girls were cute, but boys were cuter.

Clyde actually changed the most after his mom died. That was the turning point, I think. At first he receded a bit, becoming something of a recluse. While we'd always been tight, there was a brief period where he would never even leave my side. Even Tweek never got THAT clingy, and Tweek certainly never cried that much. It's fair to say Clyde was a bit of a crybaby under the best circumstances, but don't even ask about after his mom died.

Then after clingy, he became morose. Dispirited. Snappy. Irascible. Stop me any time. To put it bluntly, he sort of became a dick. No one would talk to him for a while, and we, me, Token and Tweek, became his only friends. Even then, in high school, when most kids on the football team were pretty popular and well-liked, Clyde sort of stood off to the side, and he only ever found company with us.

Then he just turned a 180 and it changed. Out of nowhere. He became more open and more friendly, especially to strangers who didn't have a predisposition against him. He was always smiling. He had a movie star's smile, one that he would show off all the time while I hid my braces behind a stern frown.

I felt like Clyde did the opposite. He hid his frowns behind smiles. Even when he was smiling, he always seemed just on the verge of tears. But it was okay, because everyone loved that smile, and, generally, everyone loved Clyde.

He told me there was no reason to wallow in self pity, and this realization had spurred the drastic change. If he wasn't happy, then, well, he wasn't happy, but maybe if he pretended to be, then he would be. Mind over matter and all that. Being an asshole had certainly done him no favors, he pointed out then, and he continued to point out to that day. I think he kept saying it hoping I would eventually catch on as well.

I've got to add that his rationale seems be working pretty well. I avoid social media like a foul odor, but every time the new MySpace or Facebook comes out, I follow along if for the sake of keeping up with Clyde. He always seems so happy with his job and his wife and his kids and his life in general. He still has that award winning smile. He always seems happy. Or, at least, he looks like it.

The point of telling you all of this is that I knew Clyde. I trusted Clyde. That's not to say I didn't trust my other friends too, but they weren't really the sort of people I felt like I could confide in. Tweek was too spontaneous and nervous to keep a secret. Token was almost TOO helpful and would probably let the secret slip just trying to get advice. Jimmy probably wouldn't have taken my woes seriously. It never even occurred to me to ask my parents or my little sister; I just wasn't close with my family like that.

It was a few days before the social. Kenny was eating me up and I needed to at least tell someone, even if I didn't think they would be able to help. Clyde was always inevitably that someone.

Don't misunderstand me. Just because I was frustratingly phlegmatic didn't mean I couldn't be strongly affected by something as insignificant as a come-on or a wink. It only meant that when those feelings did emerge, I was that much less capable of dealing with them.

We were sitting in The Car at one of the new Sonic's that had begun popping up in the Midwest in the mid-2000's. It was a bit of a drive, but what else did we have to do? We were young and careless and had all the time in the world to waste.

Clyde had a monstrosity of a hot dog covered in everything I think existed that could be put on a hot dog, and fries and a chocolate shake on top of that. He overate a lot and he was a little pudgier than he was happier with, but what did I care? He didn't seem really bothered, and it wasn't like it was a crime to be a little overweight.

I had a chicken sandwich and a Dr. Pepper. Pretty simple. I wasn't hungry; my brain was thinking too much for me to even think about eating. I even had what one might call "butterflies," if you can believe it.

Clyde was talking incessantly, (he was used to having to carry the bulk of conversation) and as I contentedly listened, I contemplated. I was thinking of maybe, just maybe, bringing up Kenny. Maybe. After Clyde finished, of course, and I wasn't sure when that would be. It might be never, and thus, as I told myself that I would mention Kenny when he went quiet, it was with partial certainty that the opportunity would never present itself in the first place.

"So then," he tells me, wiping relish and cheese off of his mouth and chewing with all the dignity of a ravenous wolf. "QB is totally at a loss, pulling plays out of his ass, basically just saying fuck it, do whatever, we lost anyway. I don't buy that for a second and I tell him we just need to open up our offense, start spreading a bit, you know?" Before I could reply, he rolled his eyes. "Forget I asked; you don't know."

"Nope," I replied humorlessly. I was nibbling at my chicken and I probably looked completely bored and disinterested, but Clyde was used to this, so he continued.

"Okay well, basically a spread is when your team is opened up across the field. Our opponents were tight as fuck on defense and we were trying to get them to break apart a bit, open up more opportunity for us to get the ball down-"

"I don't care," I interjected, flatly.

It didn't even faze him; not for a second. "Anyway, basically my point was we were slacking on our offense on a defense heavy team and we needed to change strategies. QB got really defensive and tells me to mind my own business, and – I feel like this was a little stroke of genius on my part, by the way-"

"Hmm."

"-I told him the team was my business and that I wanted us to win."

"Very selfless of you," I commented. I'm not sure if Clyde thought I was being sarcastic or not. I hope he knew me better than that.

"Well, we wound up winning, 17-14. Fucking CLOSE game. QB wound up scoring the touchdown that got us ahead, but everyone said it was my call that got us there." He wasn't really smiling; he was too busy eating now that he had stopped talking. But the way his eyes were pinched and the dimples were settled in his cheeks, he WOULD have been grinning a million dollar smile if he could have.

"That's really awesome," I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. Even if football didn't really interest me, the fact that Clyde was pleased with himself did. "I'm happy for you man. They should kick out that other guy and put you in instead."

Clyde snorted and shook his head. "Not a chance. I don't want to be QB anyway. Too much bullshit to deal with. I don't envy my QB; coach and the team give him a lot of shit. I'd rather just sit back and chill and just play the game, you know?"

I shrugged noncommittally. "Shame." My chicken sandwich was on the verge of vanishing, and I was picking from Clyde's fries here and there to delay finishing it.

"I'm sorry, I know you don't really care. I just-"

"Shut up, asshole. Of course I care. I'm really proud of you for not letting that guy push you around when you knew you were right. From what you tell me, he sounds like a fuckin' dickhead."

Clyde sort of puffed up a bit. "Man, is he," he confided in me. "You don't know the half of it. Anyway, I'm still sorry. You just look bored."

"Hmm?" Recall, I always looked kind of bored. Bored and vaguely pissed off. For Clyde to have noticed meant that it was more palpable than usual. "No, not really. I'm just sort of deep in thought right now, I guess."

"About...?" he implored me, and he took a great suck on his milkshake while I thought of how to put it.

"Well..." I stalled for a bit. I still didn't quite know how to put it into words, especially in a way that Clyde might be able to understand. I wasn't worried he would tease me, but I was worried how he would react; he had gone through a handful of girls and he was no stranger to dating himself, and there had been many nights where he'd sat and talked about his girls and his problems with them until he was blue in the face. That didn't seem weird somehow.

But I'd never brought up boys with him before. He knew I was gay, but I just didn't talk about it, so I think sometimes he probably even forgot it was a factor. And I worried he would be uncomfortable if I just started talking about it. Straight guys were like that sometimes.

"Well?" he pressed.

"I've got this thing on my mind."

"What thing? A bad thing?"

"No no, not that. It's like, a thing this guy said," I explained. Where to even go from there? "I, er, I've been thinking about whether or not it was a come on, but I'm not really sure if he might have been joking or if he might really be into me."

I anticipated Clyde to react awkwardly and stiffly and probably with typical cheesy romance advice he'd gotten from bad high school dramas that didn't even have a toe on the threshold of reality. I did not expect a reaction that could be described as "jubilant."

"Craig that's great dude!" he exclaimed. "Man, a guy said he liked you? In our school? Who was it? What did he say? Do you like him?"

"You might want to try to raise your voice a bit, Clyde," I suggested in utmost seriousness. "I think some of the guys in the other drive-ins didn't hear you."

If you've never been to a Sonic, here's the idea. It's like a drive-thru fast food place, but you don't drive through anywhere. You just pull up, push a button, order your food, and they bring it out to you. Then you sit in the spot and eat right where you are. So of course, there were a couple other cars parked in the area, all of them eating, and after a cursory glance to my left and right, it seemed our immediate neighbors had caught on to all the shouting.

Clyde guiltily looked over his shoulder. I could see him blush in the dim light. He hastily apologized and then went right on, a little quieter this time. "Okay, sorry. But I'm just excited for you. It's really great, you know? You've never seriously been into anyone before. What do you think?"

"I don't know. I'm not even sure if it was a come on. I might have imagined it."

"Nah man, you gotta go with your gut," he enthused. "If your gut says, 'he likes me,' then he's gotta like you a little bit, right? Like I don't wait for a girl to just walk up and tell me she likes me, you just sort of see it. She looks at you a certain way. Oh, but-" His voice suddenly got smaller, and the rest of him did too. "Well, you know. I don't know if it's the same for you, but, um..."

"Don't worry, I don't either," I answered truthfully. "I've never had a chance to exactly try."

Awkwardness still froze him over for a bit after that. It was bad enough that this was the first time I had expressed anything vaguely resembling romantic interest in another person, but it was in an area we both felt had been cordoned with police tape over top a brick wall. How do you expect a straight guy to give romantic advice to a gay guy? Seemed like a recipe for disaster to me, but to his credit, Clyde kept on trying.

"Okay, but do you at least get like a vibe that he's gay? Like, you guys just sort of _know_, don't you...? Is he boyfriend material for you?" Clyde asked these questions so sincerely and so heartfelt, stumbling so modestly over his good intentions that it immediately abated my rising frustration. I could hardly stand to look interested in his football stories and he would bend over backwards to give me SOME kind of worthwhile advice from an angle he'd never considered before. I felt kinda bad for him; I figure it must have been pretty difficult. Empathy was not my strong point, but that did not mean I was immune to it entirely.

Here's the thing. Everyone assumed that being gay must mean I automatically knew when other people were gay. I couldn't even tell you how many people had come up to me asking if I knew whether so-and-so was gay by the time I was in high school. How the hell were you supposed to know? Did gay people just send out supersonic screeches like bats and was I just not paying attention?

Again, I digress. Clyde didn't know any better.

"I don't really know if he's gay. I can't tell. Gaydar must be busted," I said, tapping the side of my head in good humor, to at least let him know I didn't take offense, even if it did somewhat irritate me.

He nodded, and then he asked, "So, who is it, exactly?"

'What the hell,' I thought. 'Why not.' I'd gone this far; I may as well tell him the whole story. "Kenny."

You should have seen the look on his face. A weird scrunched up mixture of surprise and disdain and disapproval. "KENNY?" he repeated. "Kenny McCormick? You're shittin' me."

There was only one Kenny in I think our entire school. But still, I confirmed it."I'm not."

"Er, I hate to break it to you dude, but, no. No way. No way he swings that way. That fuckin' perv is responsible for every dirty magazine every guy in our grade owns. I've talked women with him before. Like, no way."

"He said, 'I wouldn't mind hitting you up some time,' and I replied, 'Eat me.' Then he said, 'Baby, I'd eat you up but you're stone cold. I could heat you up a little first' Then he sort of, like, he had his face resting in his hand and he was licking the tip of his pinky. Then later, he was reciting that part from the Sound of Music, you know, the part that goes 'I hate go and leave this pretty sight,' and as he sang that last part he winked at me."

The way I said it, it seemed kind of hopeless, almost flat out desperate. I felt like no one else would have interpreted what I'd seen as a come on and any second now, Clyde would start laughing and telling me that I was obviously looking into things way too seriously.

Instead, Clyde stared at me like I had just started speaking an unfathomable alien language. He had a vaguely bemused frown on his face for a few seconds, and then he just leaned back into his seat and whistled. "Dude, you THINK that might have been a come on? Could you even BE any less subtle?"

Indignantly, I replied, "Hey, I wouldn't know, alright? I've never been hit on before."

"I know, I know, I'm sorry. I don't mean to undermine you or anything, it's just-" He thought. The frown was back. He was probably mulling over the same conundrum I had been all week. "He might have been joking," Clyde said slowly, like he was afraid of hurting my feelings. "You know how Kenny is; everything he says is dirty. He might have been teasing you because he knows you're gay. But he's definitely not, man. I don't get that vibe from him at all."

"Yeah, I considered that," I agreed, again wondering exactly where these bat screech vibes were that everyone else seemed to pick up on but me.

It was totally possible that Kenny had been joking; that was why I hadn't done anything in response. But, I told myself, Clyde hadn't been there, and he hadn't been on the receiving end. He hadn't seen the look in his eyes when he licked his finger and he scanned me over, up and down. Eye fucking, I've since learned that look is called. And he hadn't heard that inherent huskiness in his voice. If Kenny had been playing around, he was really good at not just feigning interest, but making that interest sexually charged. I still felt a little turned on when I thought about how he'd looked at me, and then there was the wink, and potentially asking me to the social, which, by the way, I had _no_ intentions of telling Clyde about.

Maybe I was just smitten at the idea of someone who was potentially interested in me in a sexual way; my lack of experience probably overshadowed my usual logical tendencies.

"I, um..." Now it was even more awkward. Clyde was uneasily sipping his milkshake, draining it very quickly, and he wouldn't quite look at me. The conversation had already gone from great to awkward to just plain bad; Clyde was probably worried he would just make it even worse if he kept talking. "I mean, I obviously don't know the guy that well personally. He might be bi or something. I'm just saying that, you know, maybe you shouldn't invest a whole lot of thought into it."

"Too late," I said.

Clyde swore. "Fuck. Like, serious thought? Like you've gone over what would happen if he really did like you?"

"Sort of. I always get stuck at this part where I don't know what I would do back."

"What, like what _you_ should do?" I nodded, and he sighed. Then he started talking, patiently, like he was trying to explain a very simple concept that anyone should be able to grasp. "Craig, when you start to like someone, you won't even notice it at first. Then all of a sudden, you won't be able to get them out of your head. All you'll do is think about them. It'll hit you out of nowhere. And the whole time you'll be wondering why and where it came from and what makes THIS person so special, and there's really no reason dude, sometimes you just get bit by the love bug. It sort of just happens. And you'll worry and stress over whether you should tell them or not, mostly because all you can think about is whether or not they like you back."

"How do I find out?" I asked.

"Well, it helps to fucking tell them, for starters." He slurped up the last of his milkshake before he continued, and then he set it in the cup holder and wiped off his mouth. "Listen, I stick by what I said before. Go with your gut. If you like someone, tell them you like them before you get obsessed with them, and you don't even know if they would like you back or not. Just do it before you wind up hurting yourself." In the back of my mind, I couldn't help but think about Clyde's situation with Bebe and how this was so applicable it was painful, but I chose not to say anything just then. If it did come up at the social, I wanted my knowledge of his intentions to be a surprise.

"But what if I actually don't?" I asked. "What if I tell him I like him and then decide I didn't really?"

"Then you tell him that too," he said impatiently, and he waved his hand to dismiss the proposition entirely. It was a kind of odd situation for me; Clyde was giving me the same sort of blunt advice that I might have given him had our roles been switched. It was just...obvious. I didn't know why it was so hard for me to reach these conclusions by myself. I guess my judgment was just cloudy with infatuation at the time. "Look, if you like or don't like someone, you just gotta be honest. Don't play games. One or both of you might end up hurt, but you can't keep secrets, alright? If I were, well, put it this way: if a girl were coming onto me, I wouldn't want her to play games either. I would just want her to come out and say it."

It all seemed so simple. Just tell Kenny how I felt, just tell him that what he'd said had me interested. It was absolutely nothing new to me; I've been telling you from the start that if there was nothing else about me worth remembering, it was that I was brutally honest. Was that so hard to just come out and tell someone you liked them? Was it really?

"I don't even know if he's into guys," I mumbled.

"Well, maybe just be subtle about it, yanno? If you think Kenny was flirting with you, just flirt back, and see where that takes you."

I looked at Clyde with a disbelieving, slightly concerned look on my face. I reiterated, slowly, "You want _me_ to _flirt_?" Now it felt like _he_ was speaking a whole different language.

Despite himself, he laughed. He pat my shoulder a few times, and then he started gathering up our trash. "You put yourself down too much," he assured me, kindly. "You gotta be confident, alright? You're the one he made a move on. Even if it was a joke, get him back at it. He'll just have to take his own medicine."

Clyde took my garbage with him and left The Car to trash it. He would never leave food wrappers lying around in The Car; he took good care of her.

I chewed over my situation and how best to address it while he was gone, but the only solid conclusion I'd reached by the time he got back was one I ambushed him with the moment he slid into the driver's seat. "You can't tell anyone. No one can know about this."

"Of course," he replied, sort of surprised, like he'd just assumed it was a given. "Dude, crushes are strictly confidential; rule number one of best friend code." And he pretended to zip his mouth shut.

I was not to be assuaged so easily. "I'm serious, like don't even ask around to see if Kenny's bi or something. Just let me handle it how I handle it. Don't even tell Token or anything."

"I know, Craig, calm down. I promise I won't say anything."

"I am calm," I muttered sourly. But I wasn't. Before, it might have just remained a pleasant illusion in my head; I would never have to confront it if I didn't want to. But telling Clyde had given it some kind of substance, had sort of made it a part of my reality. That kind of scared me.

Absently, I started rolling down the window, and with an almost strict noise not unlike a parent correcting a naughty child, Clyde stopped me. "No smoking," he warned me.

I rolled the window right back up and crossed my arms over my chest. I guess I looked sulky, because in a gentler voice, he reasoned with me.

"It's just that my dad still uses The Car sometimes, yanno? If he smells smoke, then he'll think I'm the one who's been smoking. It'll be worse if I tell him it was you."

"I know," I said. I'd gotten the spiel before. Like many other parents in South Park, Mr. Donovan was not my biggest fan.

"Hey, don't stress over it," Clyde reassured me with a smile.

"Whatever." He was talking about the other thing; not smoking. I knew this, but it still made me awkward.

"Be excited man! It's your first crush! Don't you think that's awesome?"

"He's the one who came onto me," I pointed out. "Not the other way around."

Clyde sort of hummed to acknowledge the point, and then he jeered at me, playfully, "Yeah, but you're the one who can't get him out of your head."

"I never said that," I grumbled.

Maybe it was true I'd never said it, but that didn't make it any less real. I COULDN'T get Kenny out of my head, especially not now. I didn't feel comforted at all after talking to Clyde about it; our conversation had just escalated everything to where for me, ignoring it was no longer an option. Something would have to be done, and I was about to run out of time. If something was going to happen, it was going to happen at the social.


	30. Part Three: The Arts of Cynicism

The Arts of Cynicism and Misanthropy 

School dances are boring, cliché, and full of meaningless teenage drama and angst that ultimately meant nothing significant in the grand story that was our lives. And yet, they always seem to pop up and make some kind of appearance in every story of this type, usually because teenagers seemed drawn to the idea of them like moths to a flame, and all of their meaningless drama conglomerates into some sort of chimeric super angst that creates something like a nuclear chain reaction born of sexually frustrated fission.

Or maybe I'm just cynical. Cynical and misanthropic; that was me.

The trouble is that this particular school dance WAS relevant, (although many others would not be) and I find it pertinent to your understanding of the story to delve into it a little, and you probably understand why. Notably, it was the first time that I really got a chance to talk to Kenny, even if it was instigated over the shoulder of the drunkard we were escorting. I promise to gloss over the uninteresting parts as much as possible.

The winter social took place in mid-December, just before the holidays. By that I of course mean Christmas; the number of Jews in South Park could be counted off on one hand, and I don't even think there was any other type of religious minority. There was a slightly larger religious populace in North Park, so with the two combined at Park County High, it was necessary to to use the vague term "holidays" instead of "Christmas unless you're one of the like 5% of people who aren't Christian." Or, if not Christian, Catholic, with the odd Protestant here and there. Political correctness was a bitch in those days.

With my general disinterest in social interaction, religion, and merriment in general, it might seem hard to understand why I would attend such an event at all. As it was, you and I are aware that I had three reasons to attend:

1) Clyde  
>2) Jimmy<br>3) Kenny

I told myself that I was only going for the first two reasons. But when the lights were set up and Clyde's not-date but kind of turned into an actual date and they went off to do their own thing, the reason I stayed, no matter how I looked at it, was Kenny.

He intrigued me. That's all. I was curious. I wanted to know if what he had said had been a come on or if it had just been him teasing me. That's all it was, at first. Curiosity. That's all.

At five pm, Clyde arrived in The Car to pick me and Token up, as he always did. It was a tighter squeeze in the back than usual; although he had not intended to go in the first place, Tweek had been volunteered (voluntold, really) to donate his speakers for the night, and he was positive that they would be destroyed if he had made them endure the ride in the back. We were shoulder to shoulder the entire way, and I felt him twitch more than usual the whole ride there.

"That's what you get for having the only decent sound system in town," I told him after he'd whined about it for a few minutes.

His eye had twitched and he scowled irritably at me. "Why are you making it out to be my fault?" he grumbled, completely misunderstanding me.

It was fine. It happened a lot. My jokes are not very funny.

If nothing else, this at least meant the music wouldn't be too bad. House and Dance would be better than cheesy Christmas songs.

Token helped set up the basic stuff and then disappeared early on to mind his girlfriend for the night. I figured they would probably spend most of the three hour block frenching under some fake mistletoe somewhere. He gave me a meaningful look before he left, and I nodded to let him know that I was aware. He must have known that Clyde still had his usual plans.

Tweek didn't trust anyone else to touch his sound system, so he very slowly went back and forth, setting it up himself. Since two of us were part of the crew setting up, we'd arrived about an hour early, but Tweek was still having miniature panic attacks every time he ran into someone. I wasn't sure how he was going to last the night alone, but unfortunately, I wasn't going to be there for him either way.

Clyde was pulling some espionage trying to find out if anyone had heard his date say anything about the date being an actual date. At least, that's what I assumed he was doing. He'd said he was just "going to look around and see who was here." It was all too obvious that he was scoping out the crowd for Bebe.

And Jimmy and I were stringing colorful Christmas lights along the walls, and while we politely chatted for a while during our task as the start time grew nearer and nearer, it wasn't until the gym really started filling in that we had anything interesting to talk about.

I didn't get a glimpse of Kenny. Not that I looked really hard or anything. I just, you know, looked now and then. I didn't think I was being too obvious, but I guess I was.

"Are you waiting f-for someone, C-Craig?" Jimmy asked me. As I've said before, he's too perceptive for his own good.

"No," I said curtly. The lights I was bothering with didn't quite reach the outlet, but we had a box of extensions, and I left them to hang while I rifled through it.

"Then who were you looking for j-j-just now?"

"I wasn't looking for anyone."

"You were," he stated, like there wasn't even any doubt about it.

"Fine, I was," I acknowledged. There was no point in hiding at least that fact. Meanwhile, I'd found an extension that looked about the right length, and I brought it back to the string of lights. I hooked it up and lead it to an outlet, and then I moved onto the next strand. Jimmy was carrying them around on his shoulder, and as I pulled one off and moved away from him, he slowly followed after me. I hadn't answered his question.

"You know Craig, if you had a d-date coming, I could arrange for you two to sing a d-...sing a d-d-du-...sing a d-d-du...sing a song together."

"Why in Christ's name would I want to do that?" I asked sardonically.

"It w-worked for th-that one movie. I thought you'd maybe give it a t-try."

"Jim, not only am I not Zac Efron, but I do not have a date coming. And even if I did, be real; do you really think anyone here wants to hear two dudes singing a love song?"

He looked a little put down by the dismissal. It occurred to me that he'd only been trying to help and I was being a little harsh, but this didn't bother me too much, because I knew I was right. I also didn't think that I was being too unreasonable. This was 2006. Two guys getting up on stage in a rural mountain town and singing a duet was just not something you did.

"You still haven't told me w-who you were looking for," he pointed out. "S-so who was it?"

Everything had been hung and plugged and it was all operational, save for the usual one or two bum lights per strand that usually popped up in a box of Christmas lights. I had nothing else to do to help me ignore him, and he had asked me a direct question. As was my nature, I was inclined to answer it.

"I was just wondering if Kenny was around," I said with a shrug.

"Kenny?" he repeated, questionably. "Why him?"

"He talked some shit to me the other day," I told him. "And since I thought he was looking skinny, I decided I should feed him my fists. I got a knuckle sandwich with his name all over it."

This was not true in the least, but anyone else would have bought it and moved on. Not Jimmy.

"Kenny McCormick," he said, as though he hadn't even heard my last remark. It irritated me that he was thinking it over so seriously; it was none of his business. "Huh, I guess that makes sense."

My head snapped up and all at once, he had utterly secured my attention. "What?" I asked. "What makes sense?"

"Well, he's not just a p-player; from what I h-hear he's a playing card, if you kn-know what I mean." I assume he must have seen the annoyed and clueless look on my face, because he began rattling off more euphemisms that went right over my head. "He's a t-team player, he's a swing, he's a f-fork in the road."

I was silent for a few minutes while I tried to process all of this, and in the end I came up with nothing. My private irritation must have grown more visible the more I thought and the less I understood, because I didn't even have to ask for him to just come out with it. In the end, actually, he was Kenny he outed.

"He goes both ways," he elaborated. Then, worse, he began explaining what I had not understood. "You know, like how a card is the s-same upside down or right side up, and a f-fork in the road goes l-left or right-"

"I get it, I get it. You're saying he's bi."

"Well, yeah. I thought you would have b-b-been the first to know."

"...No? Why the hell would I?" It was an innocuous remark, but it put me in defensive mode, and my reply was a little harsher than it probably should have been. I never really talked to Kenny. People thought I was trouble, but I was nothing compared to the guys he ran with. When I said I avoided trouble when I could, about 40% of that trouble included avoiding Kenny's brood. I didn't understand why Jimmy would think I of all people would know what Kenny liked in the sack.

My affront had Jimmy a little flustered; I think he was trying to figure out what exactly he'd said to make me snap at him. "I thought p-people like you could j-just t-t-t-...j-just te...j-j-"

I relaxed. So that was all he meant. It wasn't very tactful, yeah, but then again when have I ever been a person to care about tact?

Answer: never.

It's proof of my slightly detached mental state that night that I interrupted him before he could finish. "Oh. Gaydar, right. I think mine's broken."

He relaxed too, though at first he frowned at the interruption, and he started trying to recant what he'd said. " I don't know if he's b-bisexual for sure, though. That's j-just what I've heard. You know, through the gr-grape vine."

"Yeah, well, you probably know better than me. I'm not very good at figuring these things out for myself."

"You just need to pay more attention, C-Craig."

Eventually, we broke off. He thanked me for my help and then he shuffled off. I was still mulling over the idea that, apparently, it was an established fact that Kenny was bi, (and I had somehow never noticed, although to be fair I had never spent a lot of time looking) but right on cue, as Jimmy made his exit, Clyde swooped in, like he'd been waiting for it the whole time. He looked like a wreck, and I swear I hadn't been away from him for more than twenty minutes or so. Normally Clyde was the one mothering me; today it looked like I'd need to be mothering Clyde.

"What the fuck's with you?" I asked. My parenting skills were first rate, as you can see.

"It's Bebe," he mumbled.

Score one point for Token, I'd thought to myself, and I prepared myself for a long night. "Again?" I said, not even bothering to conceal the exasperation as plain as day in my voice.

"I'm not sure if she wants to get back together or not, and no one else really knows either, but I was thinking-"

"Can you two please stop this on and off bullshit? You literally just broke up at the end of sophomore year. This is getting annoying."

He ignored me. His bottom lip was jutting out as he thought carefully over his predicament. "I was going to ask her out," he said, lacking any confidence whatsoever. "Do you think she'll be surrounded by her friends the whole time? You know I hate that, and she'll probably do it too..."

"You know, I'm sure _she_ hates that whenever you two break up, you're constantly plotting to get back together with her."

"I'm not _plotting_," he corrected irritably. "She gave me the _look_. She always gives me the same look when she's thinking of going out with me again. It never fails." Fucking teenagers and their stupid _looks_. I may as well be trying to reason with the Christmas lights.

"She just wants you for shoes," I said bluntly.

"You're wrong."

"I'm wrong, because...?"

"Because she's not that shallow and you don't know her."

"No, I don't know her all that well; to be honest I don't really know girls very well period. I sort of make a point of it. But it stands to reason if you're giving a girl a pair of shoes a week and you stop and she breaks up with you, she was dating you in the first place for the shoes."

"That's not why we broke up last time, we broke up because she said I was clingy and she wanted space."

"And you've stopped being clingy." I said it in the driest, most sardonic voice I could possibly pull from my throat, and I motioned towards myself as I said it. Because Clyde wasn't like, clinging to me for support because he was nervous about getting back with his girlfriend.

"Yes," he said, this time sounding very confident and sure of himself.

Like I said. Typical droll teenage drama. Everyone said high school was supposed to be the best four years of your life; I think it was the four years where your brain development just got put on hold and you just sort of rode along having no idea what the fuck was going on.

Clyde and I didn't usually banter like that, by the way. He was just highly distressed, and he needed some kind of reassurance, which I wasn't particularly good at providing, but then neither was Clyde very receptive to it. Token had tried to have meaningful talks to him from experience, being the only guy in our group with a steady relationship, but it was to no avail. So I just talked to him until he wound up reassuring himself by disregarding my pessimism. It worked, anyway, and I didn't mind. I was used to pointing out the obvious and being ignored.

At least Clyde was smart enough to credit me with being honest rather than just being an asshole, because the fact was that I did care about Clyde, enough that when he left, it would trigger the first of many little bombs inside of me that would be pending self destruction until either someone disarmed them or I allowed them to explode. That is, when disarming was an option. After a while, it was just one explosion after another; a tower detonated floor by floor until it collapsed in a heap of smoke and ash.

That was what the conspiracy theories said, anyway. About 9/11. That the Twin Towers were actually victims of a carefully controlled demolition. But what did I know, and what did I care? I'd been growing up in middle America with nothing to do but be bored with life, and the most jarring events of my life involved wondering if another boy liked me while my best friend tried to hook back up with his girlfriend.

"Thanks for sticking around," Clyde eventually said. He was really sincere, mostly because he knew I hated social gatherings like this. Events like this put me on edge almost as much as Tweek, and as the time went by, the edge became more and more defined. "I know you weren't planning on coming tonight. I have a feeling you knew about all this."

"Token," I said by means of explanation. Secret keeping was not exactly a priority of mine. Token's neither, if it comes to that.

Clyde just nodded. "Yeah, I figured. Even if you're only here for that, thanks. I really appreciate you being around. I know you think this is stupid, but it's really important to me."

I think he thought I'd decided to come to offer moral support instead of trying to convince him to stop being a moron. Whatever he thought, I just shrugged indifferently. "Whatever, man. If she does let you down again we'll just go get a pizza and play video games all night." What would happen is we would get two pizzas and a shit ton of candy and we would watch tearful romance movies all night, because that's what Clyde did. But my version sounded better, more optimistic, if you can believe it.

"Yeah, definitely," he agreed. "Man, I'm starving right now."

"Then go eat something; there's food right over there," I said impatiently. There was a table of food set out for the event; it wasn't like it was unattainable and Clyde's hunger had to be endured or anything. It didn't make sense to me that he wouldn't eat.

"No way, Jose. I'm not messing up my chances by spilling punch on myself and looking like a loser."

This was a fair enough reason. Clyde was a messy eater. I bought it. "Fine."

After a while longer of me attempting to convince Clyde that he was an idiot and Clyde telling me that I'd never get laid if I didn't stop hating everyone in the universe, he spotted her, alone.

"Are you sure you can't just let this go?" I said. I figured I may as well make one last ditch attempt before he left and I couldn't control him anymore; it was the main reason I was here, after all. "I mean, you've already dated this girl four times. There's no surprises here."

"I'm sure," he said. He certainly sounded like he was.

"Fine."

He took a deep breath and cuffed me on the shoulder, and then he dug in his heels and he went for it. "Wish me luck," he said.

"Just don't cry in public if she rejects you," was my send off. It was very typical of me at the time. I would have wished him luck, but I felt it more relevant to remind him to protect his social status in the event of a crisis rather than assure him of a sentiment that neither of us could control.

Clyde was usually a lot more confident in dating girls; he was no stranger to the Dating Game. But he always got hung up with Bebe for some reason.

I didn't like her.

I didn't not like her in the jealous sort of best friend way, and I didn't dislike her as a person either. She was just responsible for the majority of Clyde's heart breaks and the guy was seventeen; he didn't need to get his heart all stepped on and blown to bits before he even got to college. Just thinking about them going through this whole miserable cycle pissed me off. I felt like I had the right to be indignant on my best friend's behalf since he was too busy worshiping her to realize that he was being an idiot.

It was people like Clyde who thoughtfully reminded me now and then of why I didn't date, not only girls but in general. Thank God that's not me, I would think as I watched him sweat and fidget with his hair. Thank God I'm not the one all hung up over another person who would just break my heart in the end. Thank God I didn't hear love songs and start crying over some embittered romance.

And yet, when Clyde got eyes on her and she wasn't surrounded by a fleet of body guards, (read: other women) and he went after her, I stuck around. Worse yet, I began to wonder why I hadn't run into Kenny yet. 

Staying stationary wasn't achieving anything, so I prowled through the crowd. I was doing my best to ignore the rest of the event other than the people who were important to me; I did such a good job that I honestly don't remember what much of it looked like. Ostensibly, it was Christmas themed. There might have been a tree. Probably mistletoe hung in unfortunate and opportune places. You know, the usual.

It's worth noting that my tendency to keep my head down in social situations while I try my hardest to remain blissfully unaware of things that make me uncomfortable has resulted in me having a collection of memories that are woefully lacking in detail. There's going to be several times throughout all of this that I simply don't remember what things look like. I have a penchant for the spoken word, as I've sure you've garnered from my unusually thorough collection of dialogue, but that's about it. Things that are said? I can remember those for a long time. Everything else? Good fucking luck.

I'm sure you can fill in the blanks, though. When I said I was going to gloss over the event, I wasn't kidding. Get over it and continue reading.

I floated towards Tweek after a while, but he was in some pissing contest with Mr. Mackey, our counselor, over the music. Tweek was on a Basshunter kick and his lovely Swedish lyrics were filling the air, and our counselor thought it would be better if he played, you know, English songs. Because like, good music can only be in English, m'kay.

I caught his eye momentarily and I caught onto him sending me a quick but flagrant distress signal, but I didn't have the patience to argue music with an old man. I shook my head and cut my finger across my throat, and he ignored me and went right back to arguing. He would probably break at some point, but he seemed to be alright on his own for now.

I wound up drifting to the back of the gym. I was pretty far from everyone at this point, and I was in a good position to really survey the crowd. I found nothing, but when my scouting proved unsuccessful, I stuck around the back. I was pretty content with where I was; it was solitary, lonesome, and boring. Just the way I liked it. If I had to ride out a tedious high school dance until I felt safe enough to escape, I'd rather do it there than anywhere near people.

Everyone else, they all seemed to be enjoying themselves in the mass of anthropomorphic hormones crowding the gym. It was actually kind of nice to watch from the outside like this; no drama, no trouble, no problems. Just a bunch of stupid kids hanging out together, enjoying life.

Perhaps I didn't like people themselves, but I liked people as a whole. I liked observing them. As long as they were happy and going about their business and just living, I enjoyed watching them. People were mildly fascinating when viewed from afar. It was when you got close that you saw how ugly they were.

The thing was that it was getting late, and I still hadn't seen Kenny.

I tried not to look too hard for orange; though it's true it was often his most distinguishing feature, people expected him to be in the parka at all times. It was 80% of what you thought of when you thought of Kenny, the other 10% or so being his hair, which was a dirty blond mess that gave Tweek's catastrophic hair a run for its money, and the other 10% being his financial status, that being dirt fuckin' poor.

So when he wanted people not to mind him, he just removed the parka and presto: he was invisible. Damn near no one could recognize him. It was kinda weird, but it worked; I had seen it in action. If he wanted to be unnoticed, he was. Kenny was subtle like that; it was why I could tolerate him out of the rest of the disparaging gang of hooligans he called friends.

When it began to look hopeless for me, I started contemplating my escape. The most obvious was the rear gym exit, which consisted of two double doors and a smaller door off to the side. This smaller exit probably wouldn't alert too many people, and it was probably my best bet.

The last I'd seen of Clyde, he'd been smiling and looking pretty happy, so my guess was that things were going his way. Basshunter was singing Hallaa Dar, so I figured Tweek had successfully finagled his way into continuing to play European Dance music. Token was occupied with his girl and Jimmy was probably preparing for his holiday themed skit that he'd assured us would take place some time that night.

There just didn't seem to be a reason for me to stay there anymore. People watching was okay for a while, but it tired me. Social situations in general tired me. I wanted to go home; even my vague curiosity over Kenny couldn't override the overwhelming desire for solitude manifesting in me.

Hallaa Dar faded into The True Sound (there you go, Mr. Mackey; some nice English lyrics for you) and people were dancing to it. The lights were dim and no one was even glancing in my direction. I didn't think we were strictly allowed to use the back door, but the more I thought about it, the more I was pretty sure no one would care. Everyone was sufficiently distracted. I decided it was time to make my get away.

I had hardly shifted weight before the door behind me opened of its own accord, suddenly enough that it startled me but not hard enough to draw attention to itself. I already admit I was astonished, to say the least, but what startled me more was the person who entered through the door.

I dare you to take a guess as to who it was. Go on; do it. You don't have to be genre savvy to see this shit coming a mile away. It couldn't have been more convenient if I'd planned it.

As I anticipated, Kenny wasn't wearing his usual signature orange parka, and this gave his unruly disaster of a hairstyle free reign over his head. It didn't look like he'd even tried to tame it down for the night. But as I had not anticipated, he looked uncharacteristically grim. This faded briefly into surprise when he saw me, but he didn't care; he had bigger fish to fry.

"Have you seen Kyle?" Kenny demanded, urgently.

I frowned and looked over the crowd one more time. Kyle wasn't usually hard to spot; his hair was redder than a sunburn in August, to use another modest Tuckerism. But I couldn't find him, and thinking it over, I hadn't seen him all night. "No," I replied evenly. "Is he even here?"

Kenny ignored my question, and his response lost none of his previous urgency. "What about Cartman?"

"Nope, and he's even harder to miss than Kyle." Cartman was almost louder than he was fat, and I'm not exaggerating. It was impossible to miss Cartman in a crowd.

Kenny was sounding desperate now. "Butters?" he tried.

"No luck." As I've mentioned before, I avoided his ilk like the plague if I could help it, but it was usually difficult to do so because they tended to be the loudest, most annoying people in the room in any given situation. Somehow, I had missed seeing every one of them at the dance tonight, and remember, I had been scouring the crowd for Kenny since it had started. Unfortunately, though I had found him, Kenny seemed to have more on his plate than his questionable sexuality at the moment.

"Then you'll have to do," he told me decisively.

I stared at him, unblinking, giving him a chance to explain. When he didn't, I didn't really know what to say. I was lost. "Um, excuse me?"

"I need help. Just help me to my car, that's all I need, I swear," he hastily explained. He was bouncing on his feet, just waiting to dive back into the cold after securing my, or anyone's assistance really. It's just that I had happened to be there, that's all. "Come on man, I really need this favor. It's important."

Various questions popped up; for one, I wasn't under the impression that Kenny even owned a car, and it occurred to me that out of all of his friends, he had conveniently neglected to ask for the ringleader: Stan. For another, why he assumed I would drop everything and go help him, I'm not sure; it was not the sort of thing I usually did. More pressing, however, was that annoying little spark of curiosity that had started bothering me ever since Kenny's come on. I wondered what had made him so anxious.

I decided that I'd waited this long just to talk to the guy; I may as well play along for a little while.

"Okay," I agreed.

Kenny ducked out and disappeared out of the gym, and with hardly a second glance, I slipped through the door right behind him.


	31. Part Four: Star Stuff

Star Stuff

We are star stuff, yes?... And I think every once in a while, someone comes along who is a little more primitive than the rest of us, a little closer to our beginnings, a little more in touch with the stuff we're made of.

Jerry Spinelli


	32. Part Four: Heart of Gold

Heart of Gold

You've never met Kenny before. Not really. Those little glimpses you've caught of him until now are nothing compared to what he really is. That's because I've intentionally kept his existence as much of a secret as possible from you until now, because until now, he has not been relevant. You'll soon find that Kenny becomes more relevant than anyone; more than Clyde or Tweek or, hell, even me at some points. Just because this is a story about my life doesn't mean that the story is necessarily about me.

So you may as well know a little bit about him before you inundate yourself in what will later become a major part of my life; the one who changed it all for me.

You may have never met Kenny before, but I'm sure you've met someone like him. Someone so simple and basic and so purely, utterly human that at first glance they are inconceivable, because you never realized that such a person could still exist in a world like this. Someone so altruistic, so innately kind that he doesn't seem to be possible, someone so incredibly unique and special, despite their humble existence wrapped all up in the damaged life they were given, that it is almost a shame, because the world does not deserve them, and neither do you.

Kenny came from a poor family, not unlike the majority of our reclusive little town. The trouble was that he'd grown up poorer than most. His parents were both deadbeats and neither of them had solid jobs. There was some talk of drug peddling and a little of abuse; word was that social services had once actually removed the three McCormick kids from the home, only to later give them right back. Home was where the heart was, right?

As I've said, the most distinctive thing about Kenny was his uncanny ability of fading into the background. The kid was a master at it. If he didn't want to be noticed, he wasn't. He could be depended upon to turn any bit of conversation into a dirty joke at will, but otherwise, he was generally quiet and non confrontational, and he had that sort of aura that suggested a distinguished detachment from the rest of the world. Although, you'll see how this reputation of his turns a little shaky in the coming months.

But it wasn't cold, like me. He was warm. He was friendly with nearly everyone he met and the general consensus was that he was one of those rarely, genuinely nice people, aside from his affinity for dirty humor. He had a craggy exterior sometimes; it was almost essential just to get by in the hellhole he called a life. But anyone who knew him would admit straight up that he had a heart of gold. He'd had given his life for someone he cared about, to beat to death a thoroughly cliché and over-exaggerated expression. Cliche though it was, it was true. Not that it really mattered whether he would or not; Kenny was unnervingly unafraid of death anyway.

I think that was the problem, though, later on. Kenny tried too hard. He could be ruthless, tenacious, and reckless. His passion, his indomitable passion is what did him in, I think. I was defeated ultimately by my utter lack of caring; for Kenny, it was that he cared too much.

Kenny grew up skinny and bruised. He grew up dirty and cold. But he still managed to grow, which was actually something of a miracle for other kids planted in his situation, and it's hard to describe exactly what it was Kenny grew into. I guess you're just gonna have to see for yourself.

While you're mulling over what type of person Kenny really was and what his heart was really made of, and whether or not you can trust your highly unreliable narrator to give you any kind of rational, unbiased opinion on someone who clearly holds a lot of relevance for the story ahead, allow me to further clutter your thoughts with just a little more information. On top of all that I have already burdened you with, contemplate the consequences of a free cigarette, perceptions, uncouth behavior, the screaming hickey, three strikes, penguins in Afghanistan, books for dinner, and a boy made of fireworks and stardust.

I imagine you're pretty exhausted trying to keep in mind everything I've already instructed you to, and I regret to inform you that it's far from over. Unfortunately, as I've mentioned before, we've barely penetrated the surface of it. I don't expect you to bear the burden that I do, but if you like, you can keep taking snippets of it from me; see if you can discern anything I could not from this grotesque facade that is my past. See if you can decide whether or not anything mattered.


	33. Part Four: Consequences of a Cigarette

The Consequences of a Free Cigarette

Instantly, I was assaulted by the cold. The wind had picked up drastically since the last time I'd been outside, and I didn't have my heavy winter clothes on; I'd dressed under the assumption that I would be spending the evening in an overheated gym, not in the middle of winter in the mountains.

I hugged myself for warmth and looked around for Kenny. He had jogged over to someone who was sitting with his knees hugged to his chest, his head buried in his arms. When I got closer, I could hear Kenny talking in a very soft voice to him, the sort of voice you usually reserved for pets and small children.

"Craig's gonna help me get you to my car, alright dude?" he was saying. "I'll drop you off at home and make sure you get back in your room."

"Fuck you," whined a muffled voice. "Craig's an asshole. I don't want his help."

"Well, gee Stan, that's a relief," I said, with no trace of malice. My sudden appearance startled him and he popped his head out of his arms like a turtle out of its shell. It was nothing new to hear these sort of things from people for me, and it was nothing new to see Stan in the state he was in. Just the way he looked at you, you could tell he was hammered. He looked like he might have been crying too, but then again, I wasn't the best person to discern these sort of things just from looks.

"What?" he said.

"I said, it's a relief; I was worried I might actually have to do something. Now that I know it's just you, I'll just go ahead and leave."

"No," Kenny said promptly. "Help me get him to my car."

I shook my head. "You said you wanted me to help you, not your plastered asshole friend."

"You're the asshole, asshole," Stan mumbled ineffectively from below.

"Helping him is helping me. Come on, please? Pretty please?" Kenny actually said it kind of hopefully, like he thought making his pleases pretty actually made them more effective.

I didn't like Stan, but I also didn't hate him. The kid looked like a mess, and it was cold out. He was less dressed than I was, even; I at least had a light jacket, but the guy was just wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Maybe there was an undershirt underneath, but there was no doubt he was probably freezing his balls off. I was feeling generous.

"Fine," I acquiesced.

Kenny and I helped him to his feet, and we each took one of his arms over our shoulders. I noticed his hands were scraped and bloody, and Christ, he reeked of liquor. But Stan was at least more docile now; he was probably starting to get more concerned with getting out of the cold than maintaining his pride. That wind cut right through you, and Stan seemed to finally be feeling it.

As we began slugging along through the wind, I asked Kenny, "So what gives me the honor of carrying a drunk home tonight?"

"We sort of brought our own punch," Kenny explained, contritely. "I, um, I think he had more to drink than he should have."

"No shit," I deadpanned.

"Fuck you," Stan mumbled from between us.

Kenny pretended to have heard neither of us. "He's just having a hard time right now. You know how he gets when he's bummed out."

Stan made an indignant noise and then whined, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I think he's insinuating that you're an alcoholic," I reiterated for his benefit. Stan was sort of directly in between us; it didn't do any good to talk about him as though he weren't there, though I sort of doubted whether he was entirely conscious at the moment.

"You are not helping," Kenny said very pointedly to me in response.

See, it was common knowledge in South Park that Stan was at least borderline alcoholic. Common enough, anyway. Small town gossip travels pretty far pretty fast. I was just doing what I always did and pointing out the obvious. As usual, neither of them appreciated it.

We had to carry Stan like that quite a ways. The student parking lot and the gym were on completely separate ends of the school, and we didn't dare risk bringing him through the halls, not in the shape he was in.

Stan was a deadweight almost the entire journey there, but when we were on the last leg, the exhausting final lap, he managed to find his footing and use us as support while he stumbled along. He kept apologizing and mumbling for causing us trouble, and with every word he got more whiny.

"I'm really sorry guys," he kept saying. "I'm so sorry I crashed your night like this, you guys must hate me."

"I don't hate you, Stan," Kenny said in the sort of voice that made me think he had expressed this sentiment many times before.

"I don't hate you either," I assured him. I would have done well to just leave it at that, but I suffered from a terminal case of foot-in-mouth syndrome. "I just think you're sloshed to the gills and a lush to boot."

Kenny briefly let go of Stan just long enough to smack me in the back of the head; not very hard, just enough for him to get across that he hadn't really approved.

Normally I might not have been so tolerant of this, but I sort of figured I deserved it, especially when Stan took my comment to heart and carped on about it, self-deprecating the rest of the way there until we were probably both crazy. My bad.

"Steady, dude, take it easy..." Kenny had taken most of Stan's weight from me and he was gently placing him in the back seat, letting him just lay there limply. I stood by and watched, my hands crammed under my arms to shield them from the cold.

"You make a quick stop, he'll go flying," I pointed out. My teeth were nearly chattering as I spoke; mountain born or not, I was not very tolerable of cold.

"Then he'll go flying," Kenny replied simply.

Stan just groaned and threw his arm over his head.

Kenny slammed shut the rear door. At the time he drove an '88 Ford Focus, although whose car it was exactly and why they were letting him drive it, I had no idea. To be frank, I wasn't entirely sure Kenny had a license.

When the door slammed shut, I could just hear Stan bark at him to take it easy, and Kenny just sighed and shook his head in response. Then, he looked up at me. He was smiling.

Clyde and Kenny were two unique people to me because they both had the same inherent response to stress: to smile about it. I didn't frequently smile myself, especially not for no reason, and especially not when I was not happy. To smile when you were sad or tired or upset about something seemed so pointless to me, if not slightly indicative of outright lunacy.

But then there was Kenny's smile, very tired and crinkling his mouth up all around the edges, and he did it for no reason except that he could.

"Thanks," he said gratefully.

"Whatever," I had replied. A simple 'you're welcome' would have been too much for me, I guess.

Kenny nodded and shuffled on his feet. His hands were crammed into his jacket, a lot lighter than his usual one, and I could hear him jingling his keys inside the pocket. "Do you want a ride home?"

"No." Despite the wind and the cold and the snow and my lack of winter apparel and the fact that I'd been planning on walking and that would have been a hell of a walk, I said no. I could argue that I had weighed the consequences of accepting a ride home from an potentially unlicensed driver who was possibly still a little drunk, and I had determined that it would probably get me into trouble and therefore I had refused. I'd had no such foresight. I simply denied his help because I could, because that's who I was.

"Want a smoke first then? Before you hit the road?"

"What makes you think I was leaving?" I asked. "I might be planning on going back to the dance."

"Yeah, and this guy's drier than the damn Sahara." He jerked a thumb towards Stan, who was not only the furthest thing from dry but saturated with liquor. "Hop inside, we'll smoke for a bit. It'll warm you up." 

'What the hell,' I had thought. 'It's a free cigarette.'

We both climbed inside and slammed the doors shut. It was no warmer in the Focus than it was outside, but the difference was all in the wind. If the wind wasn't devouring you, then the cold was only nibbling at you, and it was a lot easier to deal with.

"Jesus fuck, it's cold!" he exclaimed. He was fumbling with the keys; his fingers were red and stiff and I could almost hear them creak when they bent. "This shit came out of nowhere, we'll probably get four or five inches by the time this lets up..."

"How long were you and Marsh outside?" I asked.

"A bit, he said he wanted some air and it turned out by 'air' he meant 'booze.'" He got the key in the ignition and twisted it. It didn't catch the first time, but the second time the engine came to life, and right away he twisted the heat to max and cold air blew right in our faces. We both shuddered as a fresh chill hit us.

"Just give it a few minutes," he assured me, which at the time was not very fucking comforting. I was stamping my feet, trying to get some kind of blood flow back into them and keeping my head ducked low at first to avoid the cold stream, and then finally I just turned the vents away from me. It was an old car; who knew how long it would take for that frozen air to become warm.

"So about that cig," I reminded him after a minute or so of waiting.

"Glovebox," he answered. He began patting down his pockets while I clicked open the glove compartment. Underneath a stack of unused fast food napkins and crumbled up Pop Tart wrappers, I found a box of Marlboro's, half empty. From his pockets Kenny had somehow produced a lighter, so I nipped out two of them, stuck one between my teeth and passed one off to him.

"They're kinda old, probably gonna be a little stale," he said apologetically.

"Like I care?"

He just shrugged and poked his between his lips. He lit me up first, then himself. The vents were still blowing cold air, and even that first hot breath wasn't enough to warm me up. I replaced my hands under my arms and hunched up, puffing sulkily in my seat while I waited for Kenny to bring up anything. Fucking anything would have worked. The bridge, the come on, the pet store; I would have taken anything. He just didn't. So, I tried to get him talking. 

"So you never actually explained why it is I had to carry a hammered Marsh through half a blizzard."

Kenny was holding his hand above the vents, testing for warmth that wasn't there yet. He only glanced at me, eyebrows cocked, still holding onto his cigarette with his lips while smoke trailed up from it in little wisps. "Is Craig Tucker initiating conversation?" he asked in mock disbelief.

"I'm cold," I stated.

Kenny just nodded, like he got it, which was more than most people might given such little information. He plucked the Marlboro from his lips with his thumb and forefinger and he blew straight into the ceiling. "You know, the usual," he explained, not really explaining anything. "Boy loves girl, boy and girl fall out, boy goes spiraling back into depression and drinks away all his sorrows. Same old, same old, nothing new."

"I hear ya," I said. I took my own cigarette in my index and middle finger and knocked it off into the ashtray, which looked like it was getting regular usage. It was quite full. "Clyde is going through the same bullshit. Boy loves girl, boy and girl fall out, boy cries because he's a little bitch, boy and girl are possibly getting back together."

"You're shitting me, really? Again?"

"That's what I fuckin' said to him. He wants to give it another go."

"Christ. I mean, this asshole didn't even actually break up with his yet." Again, he jerked his thumb into the backseat at Stan. "She's just upset at him for some reason."

"Why?"

"Beats me, he wouldn't say anything about it. But if it's what I think it is, then I agree with her and I think he's being a child right now."

"What do you think it was?"

"What what was?" he replied, breezily.

See, it didn't occur to me to keep my mouth shut about private things concerning my friends. I would have blabbed on the spot had I been asked about a number of personal factors in my friend's lives, not because I didn't care or had malicious intentions but frankly I didn't know any better. Someone had to purposely say to me, "Do not tell anyone this," and even then it was a gamble, because I had issues with secrets. When I said that most people in our town were major gossips, that definitely included me.

Kenny, however, stuck to the bro code like a damn champion. Don't talk shit about your friends. And he didn't. Kenny was very tight with his friends, but you'll notice that unless they cross my line of sight directly, I don't talk about them much. That's because Kenny didn't either.

The heat was finally starting to kick in a little. Both of us tentatively tilted the vents up, and when we confirmed that the air was at least marginally better than the ambient temperature, we both did the same thing; we hung our fingers in front of the vents and rubbed them, trying to put warmth back into them.

Finally, I asked something else. Kenny had been right to notice that I was being unusually talkative, but recall, he had been on my mind since November. I wanted to get him talking to me. "Where's the rest of your gang?"

"That's a good fucking question," he said, and he sounded very bitter about it. "They don't like seeing Stan drunk. Probably bailed when he made it obvious he intended to get plastered on my punch."

"Your punch?" I repeated.

"You've heard of Long Island Iced Tea, right? Well, this was Long Island Fruit Punch. No actual fruit punch; just a shit ton of liquor, some of them flavored to taste like punch. It's delicious as fuck and would've lasted all night but somebody here can't control himself."

Stan gave no indication that he heard either of us talking about him. He'd probably passed out, and that was probably for the best.

"His hands are all scraped up," I observed.

"Yeah, fuckwad tripped and fell and scratched himself up pretty bad. That was when I knew I couldn't get him to the car on my own. Unfortunately, the others had already abandoned ship on us. Lucky you were hanging around. Why were you hanging around, anyway?" He went straight into the question, giving me no time to really think about it or prepare myself. It kind of caught me off guard, especially when I didn't really have a good reason for standing around like I was, by myself.

"I was keeping an eye on Clyde," I said. Pretty smooth recovery, I thought, given no warning. "He wanted me to be there as like, moral support for his romantic endeavors or something."

"That's kind of you. Were things going well?"

"Yeah, they seemed to be. He'll be strutting around like a damn rooster again before long."

Kenny snickered, "I always thought he was kind of a cockhead."

"Considering my friends are currently inside the gym minding their own business and half of your gang is in this car doing one thing or another that's illegal and the other half is out causing trouble somewhere, I don't think that's a road you want to go down."

"So you weren't looking for me or anything?" he replied airily.

I could feel him looking at me expectantly, so I didn't look at him back. While I was by no means very adept at forcing facial expressions that weren't there, I was incredibly handy at keeping any from appearing at all, and the last thing I wanted to do was look surprised. It seemed like a bad idea to give him the upper hand from the start, although I didn't know why I thought of it that way.

I couldn't wait too long before answering him; it would look suspicious. So I just never lifted my eyes up from the dashboard and I blew out the hot fug in my mouth in a long breath. Then, I explained. "I'd been edging to the back of the gym for a while. I knew there was an exit I could take without being noticed. I wanted to leave and I didn't want any trouble. That's all."

"How were you planning on getting home?"

"Walking." Neither of us mentioned the little flakes that had started to pepper the windshield. "Why did you think I'd been waiting for you? I never agreed to meet up with you." I asked it as though I didn't care. I didn't even look at him. I flicked the ash off of my cigarette and huddled closer into the seat, as though I couldn't even give less of a shit about his answer.

"Well, shoot. If you don't know then it doesn't matter does it?"

"I guess." I tried not to sound irritated. He was grinning at me. I had the feeling he wouldn't say it himself; he wanted me to ask. I was at his mercy, so to speak.

"I realize now what my error was," he added. "I thought you might be wondering about me. But you didn't, 'cuz you never wonder about anything, isn't that right?"

"Yup," I said. The seat was still cold, but I pressed into it anyway. "Never."

We'd once had a conversation like this, a long time ago, during a summer that was many years past. I was mildly surprised that he'd remembered, almost down to the word. That had to mean something, right? To be able to recall something like that? 

We were both finishing our cigarettes and cramming the butts in with the rest of the ashes in the ashtray. I put my hand on the door, but I hesitated, just a moment. After all this, after going through so much trouble, it seemed stupid of me not to say something.

He saved me the trouble. Before I could open the door, he put the car in gear.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Driving you home," he said simply.

"Why? I didn't ask for a ride."

"No, you didn't," he acknowledged. "You asked for a cigarette. But you're already in the car anyway, ain't cha?"

I just sighed. I hadn't exactly weighed in on the consequences of a free cigarette before accepting it. It was just yet another reason why I should be more disciplined about not accepting charity.

But, he was right. I was already in the car anyway. It occurred to me that he had intended for this to happen, and immediately after the thought occurred to me, I told it the same thing I told him. "Fuck it, go."


	34. Part Four: Perception

Perception

We both buckled up before we got out of the parking lot. Not because we were especially concerned about safety, but because perception was everything; that's what my parents always told me, and I think Kenny was in the know about this as well. He was already guilty of drinking and smoking underage all in the past half hour, and there was the questionable existence of an actual driver's license as well. It'd be a shame for him to get caught all because some nosy cop noticed he wasn't wearing a seat belt.

As though he knew what I'd been thinking, he informed me, "I only had a little to drink."

"Uh huh."

"Like, maybe the equivalent of two shots, if that, and that was like almost an hour ago. I wouldn't be driving if I didn't think I could do it safely."

"I didn't ask."

"Just in case you're worried."

"I'm not."

Yes, I was okay with Kenny driving while possibly being a little inebriated. Why not? Yeah I'd gotten a million classes on it, drinking and driving is so bad, oh lord no, but I just didn't care. Not that I was suicidal or anything, but frankly I sort of didn't even care if we got into an accident and we both kicked it. I just didn't think about things like that because they didn't seem important. We were invincible; we were invulnerable. Death was an empty threat to a stupid young kid who had never had to stare it in the face. It sounds awful to say it, but that's how I was as a kid. I wasn't looking to die, but if I did, it made no difference to me.

I'm sorry to say that this is another piece of relevant information to keep in mind. It's especially pertinent later, after I suddenly started to care about a lot of things. I started to care about everything, but I still didn't care about me. 

The roads weren't too bad yet, but Kenny drove slowly anyway. I felt like he did it intentionally, like he was still waiting for me to not just instigate conversation, but to ask the question.

I decided that there was no reason to play games anymore. We both knew. I could see it in his smug little smile, the exact type of smile I hated. The 'I have a secret' smile.

I would come up with many different names for Kenny's smiles. They were all slightly different, each one with minute little nuances that made them stand apart from all the others. Kenny's face was so unique and so full of life and expression; it was a very unusual puzzle for me to work out. Maybe that's why I liked it so much.

"Are you bi?" I asked, upfront.

"That was random," he mused. The way he smiled, he didn't think it was all that random at all. I didn't want to keep playing these games anymore; I just wanted to know what was going on. Cute little guessing games might be really interesting to some people, but they weren't to me. They were the very definition of annoying, and I was tired of wondering about it.

"Answer the question," I demanded of him.

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully. He glanced into the backseat; Stan still appeared to be passed out, but who knew? Maybe Kenny wouldn't say anything if he thought Stan could hear. "What does it matter to you?" he asked. "I thought nothing mattered to you."

I shrugged. "I just wanted to know. It felt like you were coming onto me before. Maybe it bothered me."

"Okay, I won't do it again."

That didn't answer anything, and I blamed him for being difficult when I knew damn well that I was the one making things difficult for myself.

"So you admit that it was a come on," I pressed.

"What was a come on?" he replied, innocently.

"Like when we were talking a while ago, in the class with the skulls and shit, about Tweek...?"

"Oh, that." He still didn't answer the question.

"So what the hell was that?" I demanded. "Was it a come on or were you fucking with me?"

"Did you perceive it to be a come on?" he asked.

"It doesn't matter," I answered impatiently. "My perception of what it was doesn't matter. I just want to know what you intended for it to be."

"Is this an interrogation now?" he wondered. He still didn't seem annoyed or abashed or anything; he was still just calmly talking through that smart little smirk. He didn't take his eyes off the road once.

"No, I'd just like you to be straight with me, that's all."

"From what I'm getting out of this, you're hoping I'm not straight at all."

See, typical Kenny humor. Also annoyingly accurate observations. My ears went hot and I slid deeper into my seat.

"Answer the question," Kenny teased me when I didn't reply.

"You didn't ask a question. You made a crude joke."

From the corner of my eye, I could see him roll his. "Okay," he conceded. "Well, look, I know it's not fair for you. I guess I already have the advantage of knowing that you're gay. I can see why you would just want to level the playing field."

"I don't want to level anything," I said flatly. "I don't want to play any kind of game at all. I just want to know what's going on."

"You're the one playing games dude. You said my come on bothered you and I told you I wouldn't do it anymore. Like, that's it. If you didn't want something else, you wouldn't keep pushing it."

"It's not that I want anything, it's that you're jerking me around like you're hiding something."

"Again, it sounds like you're the one who wants me to be jerking you."

Kenny's personal brand of humor was especially infuriating given the circumstance, but I chose to ignore it. "If you're not, then either you're fucking with me or you're making fun of me, and I don't like either of those options. For once, can you just answer the fucking question?"

"I'm bi," he said, just like that, just that easy. "There, now you know. Happy?"

I actually didn't react much to this information at all. I basically already knew; he was only confirming knowledge I already possessed. That wasn't really the thing I wanted to know.

In the meantime, Kenny's smile had faded. We drove in silence for the rest of the ride, only ten minutes or so, but I noticed him glancing in his rear view every now and then. At the time I thought he was looking out for cops; now I think he was keeping an eye on Stan. I wonder if he was worried whether or not Stan heard his admission.

Neither of us had really said anything more by the time we found ourselves in Stan's neck of the woods. He still seemed to be passed out, but Kenny whacked him a few times on the head and he slowly began to stir.

"Wake up, jackass. Get up!"

"'m up," Stan grunted, sort of rearranging himself on the seat but not really sitting up.

"You taking him inside?" I asked as Kenny pulled up at the foot of his driveway. His parents were home, and his sister seemed to be too; there were two cars in the driveway.

"I'm gonna have to, I guess." Kenny park the Focus in park, unbuckled himself, and threw open his door. "You can stay here and have another smoke if you want."

"Sure." Kenny might have appreciated the help getting him to the door, but frankly, I wasn't about to inconvenience myself anymore if I wasn't being asked to, and I had no interest in getting involved. Remember, when parents saw me, they automatically thought trouble. I'd probably end up taking the blame for Stan being drunk in the first place. "Are you just gonna dump him and leave him?"

"I'm going to get his dad," Kenny explained. He was standing outside the car, leaning down and talking into it while his words became mist in the air. "He's going to hate me in the morning, but I've covered for him too many times in the past few months. I think they need to know this time."

"You don't need to vindicate yourself to me. Just close the damn door. You're letting in the cold."

"Or am I letting out the heat?" Kenny wondered, and he closed the driver's door, side stepping to the rear door and pulled it open. "Wakey wakey Stan!" he chirped pleasantly.

"Shuddup," Stan mumbled into his arm.

Without any warning, Kenny reached in and grabbed Stan under his arms, and then he pulled, dragging him across the seat and pulling his upper body into the snow. THAT woke him up fast; Stan scrambled the rest of himself out of the car and rolled to his back, and then he pushed away from the fresh, cold powder until he was sitting up. He was covered in the snow; it clung to his jacket like little bits of metal to a magnet.

"God DAMN it Kenny," he seethed. Uncoordinated though he was, he managed to wipe the flakes off of his arms and brush some of them off of his front. "Just piss off, alright?"

"Only if you get up and stop acting like a goddamned child." Kenny picked him up again, managed to get him to his feet, but Stan was almost completely limp. The dive into the snow had pissed him off and he was in no mood to be cooperative.

"Why can't you just leave me the fuck alone? Just leave me out here, I don't wanna fuckin' go anywhere. Leave me-"

I heard Stan protesting the whole way up the driveway until they got to the cars. Then Stan leaned on one of them and just put all his weight onto it, and he slid down, away from Kenny. Kenny tried to pick him up again, and he wouldn't budge.

Kenny was having none of it. He left him sitting there, and as promised, he went to fetch his parents.

The rest, I admit I didn't really pay attention to. Rather intentionally. I had no interest in being part of whatever was about to transpire on the Marsh's lawn in regards to their prodigy of a son coming home drunk again. It wasn't my concern.

As I have said, there's going to be some times where I simply decide that I don't want to be involved, and unfortunately, my tunnel vision will sometimes leave holes in the story. Would you rather I just invent a bunch of stuff that didn't happen? Be like Kenny: take on a little creative liberty or something.

Instead, I slouched down in the car, (I was hoping that if they happened to look up, they wouldn't be able to see me, and thus, involve me) and I opened the glove box again. I stole another Marlboro and then threw the rest back in the compartment and then closed the door, and outside I could hear an older man shouting. Stan's dad, presumably. I thought it was kind of hypocritical of him to yell at Stan's slovenly behavior when he was an alcoholic himself, but what do you do?

After I poked the cigarette between my lips, I realized that I wouldn't be able to smoke it until Kenny returned. He had the lighter in his pocket. I hadn't brought mine with me.

I sat there feeling annoyed for a minute before I had a flash of inspiration, and hopefully I reached towards the dash, assuming that like any car it would have a built in lighter. Unfortunately, his knob appeared to be missing. So, in other words, no smoke to occupy me.

Outside I could hear Kenny very rapidly trying to explain the situation while Stan started yelling incoherently. Or maybe it was coherent and I was just trying too hard not to listen. I'm not sure; I don't remember anymore. Stan wasn't my friend; it didn't really matter to me at the time what he said. Besides, it was all probably a lot of senseless drama anyway.

You might think this is cold of me, but, why would I get involved in a messy scenario like that? I had enough to deal with without worrying about other people who caused trouble for themselves, and trust me, Stan had it coming to him. It wasn't his first time; I didn't even know him that well and I knew that.  
>So when the shouting intensified, I turned on the radio. Not loud enough to draw attention to myself, just loud enough to hear it. Kenny had it tuned to a rock station and that was easy enough to handle; better than inane brainless pop. I even knew some of the songs, and I hummed along with them.<p>

It was some minutes later, after I'd plucked the Marlboro out of my mouth and begun toying with it between my fingers that Kenny finally marched up to the Focus again. The look on his face was about as far from a smile as he could get; I couldn't tell if it was angry or solemn or guilty. It was a very drastic change from the persona that Kenny usually wore in public, and it was a little intimidating.

He was covered in snow, and he didn't even brush it off as he opened the driver's side door and collapsed into the seat. Most of the flakes clung to him; some of them flew off in various directions. Then he pulled the door shut, closed his eyes, and his head just fell back, totally limp. He didn't say anything for a while.

Kenny was a really good friend. I've told you before that he was one of the few genuinely good people that I've ever met, and he would have given anything for his friends. And when it came to picking between his friends, I think it was Stan, especially, that he was willing to stick with when things got rough, which was fortunate for Stan, because his so-called best friend left him high and dry most of the time.

Stan's not gone forever; I promise. He's gonna come back around again, it's just not going to be for a while. But it's gonna be because of Kenny that he's gonna come back, because Kenny was always there to pick him up when he fell down. Make no mistake; Kenny didn't ruin everything. At least he'd been there for Stan, even if he hadn't exactly been there for me.

I continued playing with my Marlboro, humming along to Stone Temple Pilots like I didn't have a care in the world, and this time, I waited for him to come to me. In the end, it was only because of the cigarette that he did.

"You gonna smoke that or just fiddle with it?" he asked. He didn't really sound mad; it was just a question. In fact, his voice sounded kind of listless, an unusual change from his usual pluckiness.

"Couldn't smoke it," I replied. "Ain't got a light."

Kenny's hand rose at first as if to point, and then it settled back down and he uttered a curse. I guess he'd forgotten about the car lighter. "My bad," he mumbled to me. He started groping around in his pocket, and then he stopped, and he turned his head to me. "You got anything to do tonight?"

"Feed my guinea pig," I replied. He looked at me uncertainly for a second, squinting and making a little frown, so I elaborated. "I'm joking. No, I don't have anything to do."

"Oh." The frown didn't really go away, but he did put the car in gear, and he did buckle his seat belt. "Sorry. I'm distracted."

"Don't be sorry. I'm not the most conspicuous joker."

"Yeah, but usually I can tell. Just not now." Kenny shook his head rapidly, as if to clear it. Then he said, "Wanna smoke the rest of that pack with me?"

"Why?" I asked.

"Because if you don't mind, I could use some company. I know you don't like company, but, maybe you might like me?"

It probably didn't mean anything. Not the way I was thinking. But when I glanced up at him, he had a really weak but earnest smile on his face. I wasn't used to reading expressions, and maybe I was reading between the lines a bit, but looking at him, I just had a feeling.

Clyde had told me to go with my gut instinct. I did. "Yeah I like you," I answered. "Provided you like me."

He didn't disappoint. He replied immediately. "Sure, I like you." Then he tacked on at the end, like maybe he was being too straightforward otherwise, "Enough to smoke a pack with you and talk for a bit, anyway."

"Sounds like a date." I remember wanting to kick myself for being that obvious. Of all the expressions and idioms at my disposal in the English language, I chose that one.

But he didn't seem to mind. Kenny just chuckled and pulled out onto the street. "A date it is," he concurred.


	35. Part Four: Uncouth Behavior

Uncouth Behavior

As it turned out, it wasn't much of a date. It was more a chance for us to feel each other out and get a good sum of what we were dealing with. It was pretty disastrous, and this is how.

We sat in silence for the majority of the ride. Kenny wasn't trying too hard to seem law-abiding and alert anymore; his elbow was resting on the driver's door, and he perched his forehead atop his fingers wearily. The look on his face had not softened with the time and distance away from Stan. I figured he was still worrying about him, and about what his just reward would be the following day for just trying to help his friend.

I had recovered from my languid slouching into the seat, but I still occupied myself by fiddling with the cigarette. If Kenny had nothing to say, I had nothing to say either. I did think it was unfortunate that we were on the verge of exploring some sort of potential mutual interest and he was too sullen to do anything about it, but I wasn't about to be disappointed just because of that. I was me, after all.

I realized very shortly into the ride that he was heading towards Stark's Pond, which I may have cast as something of a make-out spot during my recollections a while back when this all started. I guess you could call it that in some circumstances, (hell; where else were you gonna go in a town this small?) but it was other things too. It was a hangout for friends and a place to look at the stars and a place to run away to if your folks had it out for you.

It was also a despicable specimen of a pond. I remember it being a little more aesthetically pleasing as a child; now it was shallow and murky, hardly a mud puddle, let alone a pond.

Still, we kept flocking to it, or at least my generation did. Maybe it just meant something special to us and we couldn't let it go. We had too many old pleasant memories of it, so we may as well keep making new ones.

My point being, there were a lot of reasons to be around Stark's Pond that didn't involve making out. I didn't assume Kenny was taking me there with dishonorable intentions; even with his reputation I wouldn't assume something like that. I assumed we would be doing exactly as he had said: having a long talk and polishing off the better half of an ancient pack of cigarettes. I didn't often wonder about people's ulterior motives, not if what I saw at face value was reasonable enough.

As it turned out, Kenny put the car in park and then leaned over me, I presumed to access the glovebox. I didn't reach out to stop him. So when his hand came to rest on my leg and then the rest of him leaned into me and all of a sudden I felt his lips on my neck, I didn't react at all. I was just too stunned to. It had been just so abrupt and forward that I was caught off guard.

I kinda liked the way he was tenderly kissing my neck. It was warm, at first under his lips and then it spread everywhere else. He made a soft groan in his throat and I felt it vibrate on my skin. It kinda tickled; it was kinda hot. But I didn't want it.

"Um, what are you doing?" I asked, not sparing him my usual terseness even now.

"Kissing your neck," he replied, as matter-of-fact as can be. I could feel how dry his lips were in the frigid air and, counterbalancing perfectly, his tongue was wet and warm, and it slid over my neck and attentively massaged the skin he was suckling with his lips. I had no experience with any form of intimacy; I didn't realize at the time that he was in the process of giving me a hickey.

My neck was way too sensitive for this; the more he sucked the more I squirmed, and then his hand began to rub and squeeze my leg and despite myself, I was starting to pop a boner. I'm sure he noticed it, too, because then his hand was rubbing my thigh with a purpose, and I could feel his lips smirking while they sucked. It was about to travel higher when I finally told him, plainly, evenly, "Cut it out."

"Cut it out?" he repeated. I could feel his lips moving on my neck as he spoke, soft, barely there. But his breath was so warm.

"Yeah, stop it. Lay off."

And he did, just like that. The affront didn't seem to bother him; in fact, Kenny was chuckling as he returned to his seat. "Whatever you say," he replied. Then he redirected his hand to the glovebox, popped it open, grabbed the Marlboros, and slammed it shut again. Like nothing ever happened, he offered a light, and like nothing had ever happened, I leaned my head in with the cigarette between my lips to accept it.

I waited for him to shed a little light on his uncouth behavior, and it never came. I was starting to realize that waiting for Kenny to explain anything he did was going to wind up in disappointment, (I'm not sure even Kenny knew why he did things sometimes) but still I waited, and he waited, and we both puffed silently in our seats. The radio was no consolation; the station was belching out obnoxious advertisements at a rapid-fire pace for things we had no interest in, and Kenny eventually turned it down after we'd both had enough of it.

Since Kenny seemed to have no intention of explaining himself, I decided to demand it of him. I couldn't just ignore that it had happened; something like that wasn't exactly a casual occurrence for me, and my heart rate still hadn't even returned to normal yet.

"What the hell was that?" I asked.

"A really shitty commercial for Chevrolet?" he offered.

"No, asshole. That." And I pointed to the spot on my neck that, unbeknownst to me, would wind up a dark purple hickey by the time I woke up tomorrow. Then, it just throbbed a little. It still felt kinda wet, but his saliva was cooling in the chill.

Kenny shrugged. "Misunderstood you, I guess. Read you wrong. Thought you were looking for a little action."

Nothing could have been further from the truth. 'Action' was the last thing on my mind. I just wanted answers, a little closure. "Maybe you should ask next time," I reproached.

"Like when I asked if you wanted a ride home?" he replied cheekily, the implication obvious, especially since when he'd started coming onto me, I hadn't stopped him at first.

I was having none of it, and I called his bullshit. "That's the sort of logic someone would use to justify raping someone."

He glanced at me, surprised, both eyebrows cocked. After a moment, he conceded, "You're right." And after he'd thought it over a little more, he nodded resolutely, and rest his head against his seat again. "Yeah, yeah you're right. I'm sorry. I should have asked."

"It's fine," I said. I kinda wanted to tell him that he hadn't been altogether wrong; now that the shock had passed, I'd kinda liked it, and despite my condemnation, if he had tried to do it again I probably wouldn't have stopped him. I figured there was a principle involved somewhere, though, and there was no way I'd tell him that. Not until much later when it was far too late for anything.

Instead, I just wiped the drying saliva off on the back of my hand and then rubbed it off on my jacket. That particular little patch on my neck continued to throb.

"I'm sorry," Kenny said again. He was shaking his head. "I'm worried. I was just sort of looking for an excuse to distract myself and you were sorta readily available."

"Stop apologizing. I can't stand that."

"Alright," he said. Like it was that easy. Why had no one else just found it that easy? "Do you think I did the right thing?" he asked.

It took me a moment to realize that he was talking about Stan; not our little exchange. "I don't know." I didn't even really know how it had gone down. I sort of didn't want to know. I preferred to forget about it. After the rubbing and the love bite and all that, I didn't know why he even insisted on bringing it back up again. It definitely wasn't the time for it.

"Should I have just let him sleep it off and then go home?" he asked again, looking for an answer, looking for some kind of validation. "Like, fuck man, his parents were furious, and it's my fault."

"No, it's Stan's fault."

"No, it's my fault," he pressed. "I gave him the liquor."

Agitated, I responded, "I think fretting over it is pointless. You probably would have been fucked both ways and it didn't matter which decision you made. You would have wound up sitting right where we are right now wondering if you should have done the other thing. So stop worrying about it. You did what you thought was right."

"That's such a typical 'you' answer," he scoffed. Before I could get annoyed and ask what he meant by that, he amended, "And it's probably true."

"I don't lie," I pointed out, like this assurance gave me any more credibility.

"Yeah, I'm aware." He crammed his spent butt into the ashtray and slid down in his seat, hugging himself for warmth. The heat was starting to give out a bit. "I don't mean to be such a bummer. This isn't exactly how I pictured the night going."

I seized the opportunity. "So you had been planning to hit me up tonight." Thinking back to the classroom and the pet store and now the hickey, I added, "And your come-on wasn't all just bluster. It was serious."

"No, it was bluster," he confirmed, and when his head tilted in my direction and he smiled freely, I couldn't tell if he was joking or not. "But yeah, I wanted to talk to you tonight, at least."

"About...?"

"I don't know, nothing in particular. Maybe I just wanted to tell you that I think you're cute."

Stoic though I was, I will shamelessly admit that I blushed as soon as he said that. Mock me if you like; boys didn't exactly tell me I was cute on a regular basis. "Where did this come from all of a sudden?"

"Me thinking you're cute?" When I nodded once, curtly, he continued. "I dunno. I'm guessing you never thought about me like that since it apparently astounded you or something that I would even think of hitting on you."

"I didn't know you were bi," I said in my defense. 

"I know, most people don't," he acknowledged. "It's not really something I've been just announcing to the world."

"Ashamed?" I asked. "Embarrassed? Scared?"

"All of the above?" He answered like he'd just been called on by a teacher; he even raised his hand a bit and bounced in his seat, like an eager student. "It's all of the above, right?"

I smirked, and he smirked back. His hand was reaching over to me again, I thought maybe to grope my thigh some more, (I remember thinking that I'd kind of like it if he did) but it went straight to the glovebox instead. I said, "You might as well just keep the damn things out."

Kenny shrugged. "There's only three left anyway." He took his and offered the box to me, but I refused for now. I wasn't really a chainer; one or two would hold me for a while. He wound up throwing the rest onto the dashboard. Then he tapped the little cylinder against the steering wheel to pack it, and he picked up where he left off. "We don't all have it as easy as you, you know. Sometimes your sexuality doesn't just come to you in a flash of light and suddenly everything is made clear."

"It wasn't that easy for me either, you know."

"Yeah, but at least you figured it out early. Some of us think we're straight for all our lives and think it's just a fluke whenever we see a guy and we're like, 'Dang, but I'd tap that.'"

"I'm so happy to know your thought process," I told him wryly. "So that's what it was for me too?"

"Pretty much." He took a few puffs to get the tip burning and then he tossed the lighter onto the dashboard as well.

"I see," I said. This did not surprise me, nor did it offend me. I was glad to know exactly where we stood. If Kenny's initial interest in me had been purely sexual, that didn't bother me. In fact, it was better, because that meant he wasn't already hopelessly, disgustingly head over heels, and that would be a lot easier to deal with. As he (and you) are already well aware at this point in the story, I didn't think too highly of love. Had Kenny been more forward with me to begin with, I don't think I would have fallen for him quite so hard.

Then, he elaborated further. "That's why I sort of thought you'd want to get into it when we were alone. I didn't think you'd be the type to want to date and if you were interested in me, then-" He shrugged. "-there's only one other option, isn't there?"

"Wrong on both accounts," I informed him. "I'm not interested in dating and I'm not interested in sex."

"Huh," he said, not as a question. He pushed his seat back and dropped the backrest, and then he stretched out, lazily, and as he did so, he spoke. "So, what, may I ask, inspired you to even talk to me when you don't want to date, you don't want sex, and when given all the things you know about me?"

"It's more about what I don't know about you, if that makes sense," I answered. "You intrigue me. You're interesting." 

Kenny chortled, "Well, it's a shame we've got all night, because I'll run out of shit to talk about very quickly. But if it makes you happy, then whatever; I got nothin' better to do."

I observed him, lounging on the seat, staring up on at the ceiling of the car as though he didn't have a care in the world. He rolled down the window to the Focus so that he wouldn't have to reach back up to deposit his ash, and he occasionally flicked his cigarette over the edge.

I found myself feeling awkward, sitting there without something to do, but I didn't really want another smoke and I didn't want to mimic him by putting my own seat back. I felt like it would put me in too vulnerable a position. So I just sat there, arms loosely crossed, looking from him, to the dashboard, to the lake, and then coming all the way around again.

"Unless you're just playing hard to get," he reasoned aloud to himself.

"Huh?" What he'd said didn't make sense to me.

"Like I said, there's only two reasons you would willingly go off somewhere secluded with me. You and I ain't got a lot to talk about because I'm pretty sure you don't care about any of the things I care about and vice versa. I can't think of why you'd come all this way just to chat."

"So the only reason I could possibly want to talk to you is because I either want to fuck you or date you?" I reiterated dryly.

"I think so," he affirmed with a nod. "You aren't the type of person to go this far just to talk. You must have something in mind. Then the only reason you'd be turning me down on both ends is because you're playing hard to get."

I was starting to get impatient with him. He was making all of these assumptions about me and he didn't even know me, we hardly ever eventalked, and what was more annoying was that I could understand where he was coming from, because I was about as taciturn as you could get and I rarely went outside my comfort zone just to talk to people. He was irritatingly close to making sense. "I'm not 'playing' anything," I said shortly. "I'm not secretly hoping you'll come onto me again. If I wanted it, I would have said so the first time." As you're aware, this was not strictly true, and even then I'll admit I was still sitting on a semi that didn't seem to want to go away.

I think I said it because I was afraid that if he continued talking like that, he would try coming onto me again, and though I kinda wanted it and I kinda thought I'd like it, the thought of that still kind of scared me.

He didn't, though. He just kept talking, trying to rationalize himself. "You don't willingly insert yourself into social situations unless you absolutely have to, especially with people you don't like and you don't know. Earlier you wanted to level the playing field and know what my sexuality was so you knew where we stood; now I'm just doing the same thing. I just wanna know where we stand here."

"To me, it seems like you're under the impression that you understand me very well, and I'm curious as to how and why."

Kenny just shrugged. "Is it important? Maybe I'm just guessing."

"You don't sound like you're guessing; you sound like you think you hold all the cards and you're just waiting for me to either call or fold."

"Poker analogies," he said approvingly. "I like poker. Do you?"

"Fuck you."

He seemed surprised by the sudden retort; he sort of drew his head back and frowned uncertainly at me. "Jeeze, chill. It was just a question."

"Yeah, and that's my answer. Fuck you." Harsh, yes, harsher than I needed to be. The thing was, his attempt to sidetrack the conversation frustrated me, because he was the one digging around like he was trying to find some nonexistent ulterior motive, and if anything I should have been the suspicious one. I was the one who should have been cautious of him because he'd always been one of the most disgusting womanizers I'd ever had the misfortune of knowing. Even if I was interested in entering a relationship with another guy (which I wasn't) or getting in some action with another guy (which I wasn't) I still sure as hell didn't want to be some bi-curious asshole's little experiment, only to be dumped off and forgotten once the experiment was complete.

I don't think I realized all of this at the time, but looking back on it and realizing how defensive I was, I think that's why I was so scared of him. However, even though I didn't know I was scared of him, innately I must have realized that I couldn't let him know that I was scared of him, and I had to ensure that there was plenty of distance between us. The easiest way to make distance was my usual method: throw up a ton of impenetrable walls and pretend I hated him.

I didn't hate him at all and I actually kind of wanted to bring him closer rather than distance him, but it was instinctive to me. I was safe at a distance. Until I knew for sure he wasn't going to hurt me, I wasn't going to let him get even remotely close enough to try.

Kenny continued to sound civil, despite the attitude I was giving him. I think his patience was starting to run out, though. "I was just gonna point out that if you're into cards, that's at least something we have in common. We don't have much else in common and you wanted to talk; I figured it was a start."

It was simple enough, and I had been the one to say I was interested in him as a person. Obviously that involved finding out someone's hobbies, right? Was I just being unfairly abrasive? "I don't like cards," I finally answered, this time lacking my usual venom. "Card games are too tedious and repetitive. They bore me."

"Then you'd think you'd like them a lot, because you like when things are boring, isn't that right?" He said it with that haughty little grin he always liked flashing at people. God, I hated that. I've told you before and I told you to keep it in mind because I told you it would be important. Cheeky grins. Smug smirks. I couldn't stand it. I instantly dismissed my earlier worries and went right back into defensive mode again.

"Again, I question how it is you got to thinking you were such an expert on me when you don't even know me, and when until recently we didn't even like each other."

The grin was gone again. "I didn't know you didn't like me," he admitted. I may just have been sensitive, but I thought I detected a hint of hurt in that concession.

"Sure. All this time I just intentionally avoided you and your gang because I'm just shy."

"I liked you," Kenny said, ignoring my snark. "That's why I say things like that. I blend in the background and I watch people and I noticed things about you."

"You just happened to notice all of these casual observations about me, just that easy."

"I'm observant," he said coolly.

"That's a funny way to say 'stalker.'"

"I'm not stalking you, Christ, you gotta stop hanging out with Tweekers dude."

"Don't-"

"Don't call him that, yeah. Sorry. My bad." He drew in a deep breath and flicked his butt out the window. He withdrew both of his hands under his arms, huddling up on the seat for warmth, and he unconsciously started licking and biting his lips, slowly peeling up the skin and then nipping it away again. "Do you want me to take you home?" he asked. "This doesn't seem to be going well."

I was still pissed off at him and I still didn't trust him. Given the state I was in, it's no surprise that I assumed the worst. "You mean, you've figured out by this point that you aren't going to get some, so you're ready to get rid of me."

"You're suspicious of me," he stated, mostly as another little observation, I suppose, not that it was a particularly insightful one.

"No shit, Sherlock," I quipped.

"If you think I'm an asshole, why would you agree to go off with me in the first place?"

"Because..." I should have known better than to actually answer him. This would have been a prime opportunity to shut him down with another frosty 'fuck you' and acknowledge that I wanted to go home. Instead, I made things harder for myself by being honest. "I don't think you're an asshole," I conceded, sounding a little more gentle than I originally intended. I think that admission gave him the confidence to barge on.

"You just don't think you can trust me," he continued.

"Not particularly, no."

"Even though you've never given me a chance," he added, a little smugly.

"I'm giving you a chance now, aren't I?"

"Yeah, and shutting me down every which way I turn. Do you just want an excuse to hate me? Is that the problem? You just need some ammo so you can justify it?"

"No," I said. I think I was still trying to figure out what it was I wanted out of him. I sure as hell didn't know; I guess I was just really confused. "I don't play games like that."

"Well, dude, it sorta feels like you're playing with me here. I'd love a sign telling me otherwise."

"I like you." It wasn't exactly an uncontrolled blurt on my end, but it was pretty close. I hadn't even quite admitted to myself yet that I liked Kenny and there I was telling him so, flat out, in no uncertain terms, just going with my gut again. The rest that followed wasn't exactly well planned, either. "I just really like you and I just want to know if you like me too. But I don't know if you're only here because you lost a bet with your asshole friends or if you're just playing around because of some bi-curious whim of yours and you're trying to decide if guys do anything for you. I have no patience for this bullshit and I can't stand it; I don't want to deal with it."

The first thing Kenny did in response was reach into the crevice beside him and pull his seat back up, whether because he was tired of lying down like that or he thought it might improve his standing with me, I'm not sure. But after that, he just sort of sat there, playing with his dirty fingernails and picking at them listlessly.

Finally, he addressed what I'd said. "First of all, I'm not here because I lost a bet or because I'm making fun of you. I don't play like that."

"Great to know," I muttered. I sunk further down, and I was very self-consciously trying not to look at him.

"Second, you should know that, yeah, you're the first dude I've ever approached romantically. I'm sort of only just catching onto this part of me, sorry. It took me a while to figure it out. But I didn't just ask on a whim. Like I said, I think you're kinda cute."

"And you thought, well, great, he's gay and he's not an eyesore; perfect for experimenting."

"Why are you so intent on thinking the worst of me?" he asked, inquisitively. "Is this personal or do you just hate people in general?"

"I don't really trust bi guys." Again, this wasn't strictly true, (I didn't exactly know any bi guys) but I didn't really have any other reason to dislike Kenny. The fact that I was so wary of him was starting to frustrate me because I knew that, so far anyway, he'd given me no reason to be. "Especially guys who've been into girls all their lives and are suddenly all like, 'But I'd do a dude too.' Bi people are just flakes. They should just pick one and stop playing games."

"Well, it's nice to know that you think people should 'just pick one.' When you did you decide you were gay, again?"

"It's not like that, I didn't mean it like that." Even to me, my attempt at redemption sounded feeble.

"It's like that," he assured me.

"Fine," I said. I wasn't really convinced either way, but I had no interest in arguing about it. "But do you have any idea where I'm coming from? Do you understand at all? I've never-" I trailed off before I could get myself into trouble. It was never a good idea admitting to someone you weren't sure if you could trust them because you'd never been involved with another person before. Not only was that just screaming "insecurity," but it was also begging someone to take advantage of you.

Unfortunately, as Kenny had assured me earlier, he was annoyingly observant. "You've never been with anyone before?" he asked. "I mean, you told me you've never been in love, but you've never done anything...?"

Rather than acknowledge him, I just turned my head away and stared off blankly. The grass had almost completely been blanketed with snow; only the longest strands poked through in little green flecks across the landscape. Great, I thought, here would come the inevitable teasing about how I was such a loser for being a virgin and et cetera et cetera. Sixteen year olds worry about that sort of thing for some reason, like having sex was some sort of incredible and meaningful right of passage rather than an awkward and messy exchange of fluids.

Despite my blatant refusal to acknowledge him and my low expectations, Kenny continued, speaking very kindly, not at like I had been expecting. "Well, if that's the case, let me explain that if I'd known that, I wouldn't have been so forward about trying to come onto you."

"Is that so?" I said dryly.

"Yeah. I already told you, I don't play like that; I'm no heartbreaker. But I guess there's no point in telling you that if you can't trust me yet anyway."

"There haven't exactly been a whole lot of opportunities for me to trust people, you know," I told him.

"No man, I understand, I ain't gonna judge. You don't have to be like, ashamed or nothin'."

"I'm not," I assured him coolly.

"Right, then..." He paused, uncertainly at first, and then he continued. "I'm not really good at this either, you know."

"Playboy McCormick himself is no good at 'this'? Whatever 'this' is?"

"Hey, I didn't tease you for the whole 'being a virgin' thing, so lay off."

Hearing him finally use the dreaded "V" word shut me up right quick. It wasn't something I was ordinarily self-conscious of, but in his company, self-consciousness flared up and stared me right in the face. "Fine," I muttered.

"I was just thinking that, if you want, we could try starting something like, right at the beginning. I mean back to basics, man, from the start, cliché and everything. That is, if you want something like that, or if you'd even want to try something like that."

I was still watching the snow pile up in soft mounds outside the car, and a thought suddenly came to me. "Do you like penguins?" I said, as though making a revelation, and I finally looked back at him for his answer.

Kenny looked remarkably like a befuddled puppy as he tilted his head to the side. "What?" he said, confused.

"I wanted to see Happy Feet when it came out a few weeks ago, but none of the others wanted to."

Kenny just laughed. "The kid movie? The singing penguins?"

"Yeah."

I could tell he was trying really hard not to sound condescending. The truth was that he still did, and the truth was that I didn't care. "Do you want me to take you on a movie date?" he offered.

"No," I corrected. "I want you to come watch a movie with me. It doesn't have to be a date."

"That's fine with me." He was beaming; Kenny had gone through a lot of variants of the smile in the past hour or so, but now he was simply beaming. All I'd done was agree to watch a movie with him and the prospect of that just that made him so happy, and it unnerved me a little, how excited he could be for something so simple and so commonplace as a trip to the Bijou. "Now do you really want me to take you home?" he asked. "I don't want to keep you here if you're tired of me already."

"I kinda do," I said, though I didn't. I wanted to talk to him more; the trouble was just that I didn't know what to say.

Nonetheless, he respected my wishes, and he put the car in drive and we left the pond. Despite us not really being very familiar with each other, he knew where my house was, (damn near everyone in town knew where everyone's home was if they'd lived there for more than a month) and he went straight there, no detours and no funny business. He even did a little U-turn on the tiny street as he pulled up so that the passenger side would get out closer to the house, which was kind, as the snow had become too much for my shoes and I was missing my boots.

"Here, take down my number," he said, and he told it so fast that I had no choice but to just comply and jam it into my phone as quickly as I could. "Call me whenever you're ready for that not-movie-date. Want a goodnight kiss?" he teased.

I gave him a look that would spoil milk and said, flatly, "No."

"Then get out of my car, fucker." He said it with mirth, with unusual bounciness. Even as he leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms and waited for me to leave, he was still smirking that infuriating smirk, and I still thought that it was kinda cute.

"Fine." I opened the door and unbuckled myself with one motion, and then stepped out of his car easily, without hesitance. It was only when I went to close the door that I stopped and stared at him, and he just tilted his head towards me again, like a pining little puppy that was just begging you, just beseeching you with all of its charm to admit that it was adorable. So I did. "For the record, I think you're cute too."

"Record is noted," he told me, and he wantonly blew me a kiss.

I slammed the door in his face and left him there. He only waited long enough to see me make it to my doorstep, and then the car was moving away.


	36. Part Four: The Screaming Hickey

The Screaming Hickey

Kenny was not exactly thought of as being very intelligent. He wasn't a dumbass, sure, definitely had more in his head than most of the people around there at the time, but he never said much and he didn't do spectacularly in school, so you might just sort of assume offhand that he wasn't a bright kid.

He was.

One of the ways I knew this right away was that he had only given me his phone number and he had not taken down mine. This meant that the only way anything could proceed between us was if I was the one who initiated.

The other way I knew this was that no one else found out about our excursion that night. Gossip traveled fast in a town as small as ours, and not a single word was said to me by anyone, meaning that the only two people who knew about what had happened were the ones who'd been in the car.

Not all intelligence was measured by standardized testing, you know.

Unfortunately, I did not have the gall to call Kenny back. I stared at his number in my phone and I saved it under the contact name "McCockDick" so that I wouldn't feel like having his number meant anything serious. It was just another number in my phone, one with a ridiculous name on top of it.

And yet I kept pulling it out and staring at the number and thinking about texting him and setting up a time and place for our date. I thought about it, anyway. I didn't do it.

Christmas vacation was imminent. The social had been on the second to last day of school before break, and the following day of school was the last day; one last day of school before we would be released to cause winter havoc until after New Years. It also meant that it was the last time I would be able to talk face to face to Kenny, and thus avoid having to be the one to call him or text him, and thus avoid being the one to admit that I was really interested in seeing where we could take this. Either I saw him at school on that last day, or the odds were that I would never call him.

I was such a stubborn kid. I was so determined to make sure that everyone knew just how little I cared, even though that attitude only ever caused me problems. I'm not sure why I was like that. I say that other teenagers must have been slightly out of their minds during their high school years when it was plainly evident that I was entirely absent from mine.

Unfortunately, Kenny skipped school that day. About a quarter of the students did. It was a half-day, and the day after the social, and Stan had probably not been the only one to get a little tipsy on homemade punch.

The only way I can think of to describe my feelings then is "crushed." My nonexistent hopes: decimated. There was no way I could talk to Kenny now. I couldn't like, just call him or something, because I like, didn't have his number right there or something.

I told myself that not seeing him that day had eliminated all possibilities of whatever this thing was from advancement. It was over. I felt strangely comforted by that, by just deciding to not get involved.

So, without Kenny and a potentially embarrassing encounter to worry about, I settled for getting through a tedious half-day in which teachers allowed the students to run amok and everyone talked as loudly as they pleased. It was a trying morning, and by lunch my patience was worn very thin.

As you're well aware by this point, our group was tight knit but not parasitic. We could all be associating together in a group without actively engaging every member in it. As usual, this resulted in Tweek and I subconsciously excluding ourselves; he was demure as usual, and I was not in the mood for chatter.

Unfortunately, some members of our group were as annoyingly observant as Kenny.

Today, Benassi's "Able to Love" was our background to their conversation, which predictably enough included Clyde's good fortune with Bebe at the social. They were able to love, as it turned out. I can't say much for certain other members of our group at the time.

"She didn't even hesitate," he gushed. "I told her I'd been thinking about her a lot lately and she said she'd been thinking about me too. Then we chatted for a bit, caught up to speed, you know, and she asked if I was seeing anyone lately. I told her no, and she said she hadn't either-"

"I thought she'd gone out with Francis a few months ago?" Token interrupted.

Clyde just waved this information away. "You must've heard wrong. Anyway, we totally hit it off all night and I asked if she wanted to give it another shot, and then just like that, she agreed!"

He was grinning from ear to ear and clearly expected the rest of us to be just as exhilarated about this news as he was. We were not.

"Guys," he said, his enthusiasm starting to lose a little steam. "She agreed to be my girlfriend again, isn't that awesome?"

Token turned to me with his eyes dangerously close to rolling out of his head. "Twenty bucks says they're broken up by Spring Break?" he offered, sounding nearly bored as he said it.

"Twenty?" I repeated, as though offended. "D'ya think I'm a fuckin' Bank of America or something?"

"Heh, sorry. I'll take less?"

"Guys," Clyde whined. "Knock it off. You're supposed to be happy for me."

"We're h-happy for you, Clyde," Jimmy assured him. "We j-just don't think it'll l-last very l-long."

Clyde's cheeks puffed out and all at once he looked very sullen. "That's not very supportive," he griped. "I've finally got the love of my life back and you guys think it's funny to guess when it's going to fail. Which it's not," he added. "This time I'm not letting her go!"

"It's not that we don't like B-Bebe," Jimmy said. "We do, we think she's a g-gr-great g-g-g-gal. I just d-don't think you have a ch-cha-ch...ch-ch-chan-ch...ch-cha-cha...have a shot with her."

"See, dude, that's pretty much the definition of 'not supportive.'" 

Meanwhile, I wasn't paying much attention to any of them; I was busy pulling out and looking through my wallet. I spent almost all of my paycheck every week on guinea pig supplies and cigarettes, but I found a few bucks crumpled up that I could spare.

I went to address Token again: "I got six on Valentines Day-" But then I finally noticed. Token wasn't looking at me anymore; he was looking at my neck with an inquisitive frown on his face.

"What?" I demanded. I hated being stared at.

Token asked, slowly, "I might be crazy, but-" It was like he was already aware that he was probably asking a stupid question, but he'd decided to go for it anyway, "-is that a hickey on your neck?"

Lightning fast, my hand clapped over my neck and my cheeks went hot. Clyde and Jimmy stopped bickering and their heads both snapped towards me. Tweek was beside me, but he'd been on the side opposite of the hickey; he hadn't seen it. So the question startled him and he choked and turned to stare at me along with the rest of them.

I wasn't often the center of my group's attention, especially not for something like this. I didn't deny it, though. I couldn't; it was true. That's what made it worse.

"You dog," Clyde said approvingly. He was grinning.

"So things w-worked out with Kenny, I'm g-guessing?" Jimmy asked.

"Kenny?" Token repeated. Now that Clyde and Jimmy seemed to be already in on it, he lost all hesitation in bringing this all to light. "Kenny? You and Kenny McCormick?"

I have said before that Token was probably one of the only members in our group who understood the importance of tact. He was, however, worse of a gossip than I was. Furthermore, it was ten times juicier to learn gossip about someone you knew personally. I didn't blame him, but you understand now why I hadn't wanted Token to know.

"No," I grumbled, unconvincingly. My hand remained plastered over the only giveaway from the previous night, the hickey that was screaming 'yes' despite my 'no.'

"I can't believe it; you were right. I did not think that guy swung that way, but I guess you hit it off, huh?" Clyde leaned over and cuffed me on my shoulder. "Why didn't you tell anyone sooner?"

"Because it's not true, obviously." Tweek interjected. I appreciated him sticking up for me, but I dreaded having to tell him he was wrong. "He d-didn't say it was a hickey or that anything happened with Kenny; you're all j-just making assumptions."

"It looked like a hickey to me," Token argued. "Come on dude; move your hand. You know us, you know we aren't going to make fun of you. Is it a hickey or not?"

"If he d-doesn't want to show you, he doesn't have to!" Tweek insisted, sounding progressively more and more annoyed with every word. "Lay off!"

Clyde began addressing me solemnly, talking into his hand as though speaking through a megaphone or something. "Craig, it's over man; the gig is up. Come out with your hands up."

"No."

"You guys knew about this Kenny thing?" Token asked, looking at Clyde and Jimmy with both eyebrows cocked. At the same time, I gave them both a menacing death glare.

"Lucky guess," Clyde said with a shrug.

"Same," Jimmy agreed.

Token just scoffed, "Yeah, I'll bet..."

"Alright..." While they were distracted, I let my hand slide from my neck. But just as fast, I popped the collar to my coat, hiding most of my neck, including the incriminating hickey. Then I yanked out the bud in my ear, took up my tray and got to my feet, keeping my head low and my gaze diverted from their searching eyes. "I'm over this. I'm not going to sit here and be gawked at like a fuckin' carnival attraction."

"Aw Craig, don't be like that," Clyde consoled me. Being our overbearing mother, he was clearly concerned that he'd accidentally upset me. "I swear, we don't mean nothin' by it. We're just happy for you, that's all."

"Yeah, it's kinda exciting," Token enthused, trying to inspire this supposed excitement in me too. "We talk about our girlfriends all the time, you know? It's just like, I didn't even know you and Kenny were into each other-"

"We're not," I said sharply. My harsh tone made Tweek visibly twitch again. I told myself to stop being so frazzled over all this; nothing had even happened, there was absolutely no reason to even be frazzled in the first place. These guys were all my friends, and I knew they had my best interests at heart. It wasn't like they were a bunch of homophobes on the verge of stoning me or anything, although if I'm honest, that would have almost been easier for me to deal with. It's much easier for me to handle anger than pity. "Just...don't. I know you mean well, but, don't."

"Sure, man," Clyde said. "We won't stare anymore, we promise. Just sit back down, alright?"

I just shook my head. "I'm done eating anyway."

"Craig, don't be so j-juvenile," Jimmy admonished. "It's not such a b-big deal! Don't m-make it one."

"I know, I know. I'm just not hungry and I want a smoke."

"I'll go with you," Tweek offered, and he prepared to stand.

"It's fine," I said before he could get too far. "I'll see you guys around."

And with that, I spun around and left. I didn't just leave the cafeteria; I left school. I just walked out.

It wasn't that hard. The deans were more occupied with scouting inside during lunch, (the crowds of hormonal teenagers were prime time for fights and roughhousing) and outside the school was relatively deserted. Once I found an empty hallway that had an outside exit, I was golden.

It was a half day. We hadn't done a damn thing all day. I doubted the rest of my teachers would even be taking attendance.

Of course, leaving like this meant that I had quite a walk ahead of me, and that gave me plenty of time to think, which was the exact opposite of what I wanted to do. Had I really thought that I could escape Kenny that easily? All at once, he was back to monopolizing my mind.

An hour and a half of walking in silence awaited me, but it was no use turning back now. There was no reason to even think about texting Tweek to bail with me; he'd looked startled enough by just the implication that I'd been fraternizing with the enemy, and he was sure to grill me the next time he saw me alone. I could at least delay that.

So I walked, but it was not in silence. I had many thoughts, and my thoughts are very loud.


	37. Part Four: Three Strikes

Three Strikes (the pet store redux)

Although I was looking at something like three solid weeks of holiday vacation from school, I took no such vacation from work. The pet store was open all throughout the holidays, (barring the actual holidays themselves, Christmas and New Years) and that meant I had plenty of work in my off time. Recall, I had little to no social life, so a holiday from school merely meant that I now had MORE time to work. It meant a little more money, which was great. It also meant a little more arguing with the customers was necessary, which was not great.

"Sir, I insist," I said in the most diplomatic tone I possessed. It was only so much better than my usual one. "This cage is just too small for two hamsters. They're not going to have enough space."

The guy I was talking to had two children with him, both rambunctious boys, and they were little shit heads. They were trying to persuade their father to buy them one hamster each for Christmas, and he'd said he would only do it if they shared a cage. They didn't see a problem with this; I did.

"These hamsters are tiny," he said dismissively. He was reading the box of the cage he was looking at, one I considered too small for ONE hamster, let alone two, and I was struggling to hold my tongue. "They don't grow a lot bigger, do they?"

"It's true, the ones your kids are looking at are dwarf hamsters and they're not as violent as Syrians." Breathe, Craig. Don't raise your voice, don't get snarky. He's a regular guy with two stupid children who run his life and you just need to be a voice of reason. "But the cage you're looking at is small for a normal sized hamster, and you're talking about cramming two in it. They won't have enough room. They'll fight each other."

"Looks big enough to fit three or four of these rotten things," he muttered without looking up at me.

Breathe, Craig. Just keep talking to him like he's a child himself. "Yes, theoretically, you could probably fit a dozen hamsters in there, but there's a difference between there being space to fit something and there being room to live. You aren't packing a moving box full of silverware. Using this cage would be like you and your wife living in a one room apartment for the rest of your lives."

"This one doesn't come with the water bottle and all that junk, does it?" he asked. He was still reading.

The truth was, I didn't know if that model did or not. I scorned it, thought it was too small for even a mouse, and I tried to steer my customers away from it as frequently as possible. However, I jumped on the opportunity. "No, you'd have to buy all of those accessories separately." Sure, it's possible I was lying, but it was for a good cause, right?

"Damn," he said, and he got back to his feet. He resumed looking over the rest of the cages.

"This one would be sufficient enough-" I tried to reason with him, but he shot me down instantly.

"Yeah, yeah, I smell your little plot, kid. Point out the biggest, fanciest cage and for two hamsters and a plastic piece of junk, I'll wind up going over $150 on this shit. Spare me the consumerism, kid."

You wouldn't believe it, but I have a tremendous amount of patience. I'm a very even tempered person. Unfortunately, it was very slowly stretching to the limit, and I would probably lose it if he called me "kid" one more time. "Sir, I'm not trying to rip you off, I'm just suggesting that if you do plan to have two hamsters in the same cage, it would be prudent to-"

Both of the boys came running over and got in between us, bouncing up and down and calling him over and over and over again. The oldest couldn't have been more than six; the other was maybe four.

"Dad, dad, I know which one I want, I know exactly which one I want-"

"Ezactly," the other boy confirmed.

"I want it now," the older one plead, and then they both began to chant: "Can we get them now? I want it now!"

"Just hold your horses for two more minutes," he told them with a good deal more patience than he'd ever spoken to me. "Just let me finish getting a cage and we can get whichever two of those rats you want."

I watched the two sniveling punks return to the hamster display, putting their hands and faces all over the glass and jumping up and down like hyperactive chihuahuas.

I don't like kids. It should come as no surprise to anyone. I always figured it was something of a blessing to society that I'd turned up queer.

"Maybe you could consider getting them something that requires a little less care," I suggested.

"They're hamsters; you feed them and water them and what the hell else do you do? Clean the cage once a month?"

The fact that I was able to keep a straight and blank face is a testament to the sheer will I have developed over time while working in this pet store. "Especially with two hamsters sharing the same cage, you would want to clean it much more frequently, at least once a week, if not-"

"Look." He turned to me, eye to eye, and he helplessly spread his arms apart. "Just look at where I'm coming from. The kids want these things. I can't afford two cages and I can't afford a bigger cage. They're gonna whine if I only get one hamster and they're sure as hell gonna throw these big ass tantrums if I don't get 'em one at all. If something has to be sacrificed, I'd rather the rodent do the sacrificing, you get me?"

Or, I thought, you could just stand up to your whiny little dickwads and tell them they aren't old enough for a pet.

I didn't say that. What would have been the point? It would have only served to piss him off and put me out of a job.

But I'd had it. I couldn't pussyfoot around it any more. My tone grew harsh and I began to mercilessly berate him.

"Well you know what, that's exactly what you're doing if you put those two hamsters in a cage this small; you're sacrificing at least one of them."

He spared me a brief, nonplussed glance before returning to the cages. "What does that even mean?" he scoffed.

"Hamsters can be really, really violent. Even dwarf hamsters can be violent under stress, and trust me, putting two of them in a small cage is going to cause stress."

"So they'll fight," he said, shrugging. "They'll get over it eventually. Our dogs fight now and then."

"Yeah, but do your dogs fight each other to the death and then eventually bite each others fucking heads off?" The next look he cast me was alarm, but I didn't stop there. "Your kids are young, you probably don't even let them watch PG-13 movies yet. Do you really want them watching in horror as their pets attack each other until they're screaming and bleeding until one of them finally wins and then probably fucking eviscerates the other one?"

"You're kidding," he asserted, though the look on his face told me that he suspected I wasn't. "These things will actually do that?"

"Get separate cages for them," I urged him. "Or at least get them a nice, big cage and before you buy them, make sure they don't react violently towards each other. Otherwise you're not just wasting the money on two hamsters that are probably going to kill each other, you're buying front row tickets for your kids to see the goriest thing they've ever seen before."

I recall, he had been sufficiently terrified by my counsel that he had bought a much larger cage than what he'd originally considered. I also recall being told off by my manager later that day for horrifying customers and using crude language around them in order to make a sale.

I'd take the browbeating any day. At least I'd know that the animals had a slightly larger chance of surviving their new homes. 

I'm sorry to say that these sort of encounters happened a lot during the holidays. Parents are weak and subjective and children are selfish and demanding. Pets are always top of the list during Christmastime. Unfortunately, very few children cared about the welfare of the animals, and fewer parents would listen to the helpful employee trying to explain to them that animals are living things, not toys.

Of all the things you can accuse me of not caring about, at least you can rest easy knowing I give a shit about animals. That's certainly redeeming enough to counteract all of the other negative shit about me.

It was the first day of the holidays, and for once, I was working day time. The encounter I just described was one of many, and I had as many successes as failures. My decrease in patience would result in a few more outbursts on my end, as you are about to find out.

I was just restocking cat food, the wet stuff that comes in tins, when I had a slightly different encounter. This one I had not expected at all, and it was fair to say that it was by no means part of my job description.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Craig?"

I was on my knees next to a box full of canned cat food and re-shelving it in the empty spaces. At first I turned to point out this excruciatingly obvious fact with my usual caustic sarcasm, but then I saw my opponent, and I determined that taking the high route to the low route was a much better plan. "Oh. Hi Bebe."

Yes, Clyde's Bebe. I will mention that it is not very odd at all for me to run into her while at work. As I mentioned earlier, the name of the pet store was Stevens'. I implore you to hazard a guess at Bebe's last name.

"Do you have some kind of problem with me or something?" she asked brusquely, without greeting me back. She was tapping her foot, which was inside one of those sharp, tiny heels that I imagined must be agonizing to walk in, and her arms were crossed over her chest. She wore a dark red sweater (very Christmassy) that covered her pretty well, but I am told (by Clyde, mostly) that her rack was evidently immoderate. Given that you now know a certain relevant fact about me, you can see why I can't speak with any certainty as to the truthfulness of this.

"No," I replied. "Not as of recently, no." As I have said, I didn't especially have a problem with Bebe as a person. Working in her father's store and being around her more frequently than I was with most people in my classes, it actually upgraded her to something of an acquaintanceship.

"Really? Because Annie Faulk says you do."

"That I do what?"

"Have a problem with me!"

"No?" I said again. "And I don't see why either of us should have a problem with each other. Have we ever before?"

"You and Token are gossips," she rebuked. This was not an unfair accusation, and you already know why. "I heard you two were already placing bets on how long me and Clyde would last. How cutthroat can you get?"

"Oh." Token was dating a girl named Nichole who was friends with Annie Faulk who was friends with Bebe. A long, gossipy chain. "In my defense, you two have broken up-"

"I know how many times I've broken up with him before, Craig. That doesn't give you the right to treat me like I'm a game or a joke."

I continued stare blankly at her with what I hoped was at least a vaguely bemused expression. Not only had I not expected her to be so mad at me, but I also didn't really see why. 

"It's not just you, if it makes you feel better. We're treating Clyde like a joke too. And we bust his balls to his face daily."

It wasn't the worst thing I could have said, but it was definitely not the best. I could visibly see her anger kick it up a notch. "Well, maybe you and your friends could stop being such assholes," she snapped. "Maybe you could stop treating your best friend's relationship like a game!"

"We aren't really, we're just being honest with him. Mostly," I said, my tone dangerously close to sliding into the malicious realm, "-because we've seen him get hurt before by being in these relationships and we would like to see him stop getting hurt."

She just steepled her fingers and put the tips to her forehead. She closed her eyes into them and shook her head in total exasperation.

"Craig, you're a nice guy," she told me, and I was right back to bemusement again. I thought I was just going to have to roll with it this entire conversation. I often did in conversations with females.

"Thanks?"

"I mean it; I know you come off bad sometimes but you're really not, and I know you care about Clyde."

"Okay?"

"Listen, I know you probably think I'm some heartless bitch who keeps dating Clyde and breaking up with him again just to screw with him or something, right?"

"I haven't entirely ruled it out, no."

Her eye twitched, just faintly. I think her question had been mostly rhetorical. "But that's not true. I truly care about Clyde, I really do."

"That's good; I should hope so if you're dating him again."

"And I don't want him getting his heart broken any more than you do," she continued, speaking a little louder, I think implying that she didn't really want me to interrupt her anymore. "Clyde's a really great guy too. Unfortunately, he's also a little immature."

I did not take the hint. "That's true."

"See, people always look at the girl in these relationships and wonder what it was she did wrong. Guys always look at it like we're just evil bitches out to ruin men and it's bullshit . Men are pricks, all the way, down and down, and no one cares if they ever hurt their girl, no, girls just need to stop being so emotional ."

And then, it hit me. Bebe was ranting. Not to her girlfriends or her boyfriend, but to me, an employee at her father's store who happened to be her boyfriend's best friend, and on the first day of vacation. It suddenly clicked for me. "You and Clyde already got in a fight, didn't you?"

At first I thought she would just get pissed off again and chew me out, but then she just turned and walked herself down, leaning against the shelves until she was sitting on the linoleum beside me. "We've only been dating for like two days," she sniffed.

"I see." I really hoped she wouldn't start crying on me, and she didn't. Bebe was a tough broad; she didn't normally get all wishy-washy around people.

"I just don't know what to do with him. He's so childish sometimes."

"He's childish almost all the time," I commented. I'd gone back to restocking the cans. I figured Bebe went to me rather than her real friends because she just wanted a sounding board rather than someone fussing over her. I happen to have an incredibly viable talent when it comes to ignoring people.

"He said I was overreacting about the bets about when we'd break up. And people have been talking a lot of shit about me, saying really nasty things-"

"People talk shit about everyone around here," I reasoned. "Look who you're talking to."

"Yeah, but it just feels like it's coming from a lot of different angles and it all feels hostile, and Clyde told me to stop overreacting and he said-" She huffed up and her nostrils flared and she glared at the little squares on the floor. "He told me to stop PMSing and to not worry so much about it."

Oh, Clyde. Dear Clyde. I never even dealt with women on a regular basis and I was socially awkward to the nth power, and even I knew the number one rule. Never, ever insinuate that their reactions were based on whether or not they were menstruating.

"He didn't mean nothing by it," I offered.

"I don't care if he didn't mean anything by it, that's still what he said."

See, this was one of the reasons I didn't mind Bebe so much. It's not about what you mean; it's about what you say. Clear and concise, no runaround bullshit. It's hard to get that from a girl. "I understand."

"So me and him wound up fighting in front of all these people at the mall and I just-" She sighed angrily. She was smoothing out her sweater with a flat iron palm and she was still scowling at the cheap linoleum like it had caused all of her problems.

"Did you try to talk to him about it?"

"Talk?" she repeated. "We just had the argument. Like just now, like twenty minutes ago. I don't even want to look at him."

"I mean, about what it was that upset you. You didn't fight with him over the rumors; you got in a fight with him because he dismissed your feelings by saying you were PMSing. Does he know that's what set you off?"

"Are you trying to suggest that it's my fault?" she said in a tone that dared, just DARED me to reply in the affirmative. "That even though he said something completely out of line, it's my fault for overreacting?"

I was getting frustrated again. The fact that she was actually this upset at Clyde and totally convinced that she wasn't remotely at fault irritated me. So I snapped back at her, coolly, "No, I'm just asking whether or not you think Clyde is psychic, and if so, if you're contemplating opening a business. It could turn out very lucrative."

Bebe's mouth was open, just slightly. I think she was gaping at me. I didn't care; I was turning the cans on the shelves so that the labels faced outwards. People liked taking them off of the shelves and replacing them just all randomly, with the pictures facing out, and I thought it was more pertinent to a consumer's interests to know what was in the food rather than how happy the cat looked on the wrapping.

"Did you tell him why you were upset when you got upset." I presented it as a statement, not a question.

"No," she admitted. "He should know by now, though..."

"How do you expect him to know what makes you angry if you just get angry at him all the time and never tell him why?"

"Because we've been dating on and off for six years and you'd think he would just know by now," she huffed.

"Men are stupid," I stated. Ignore that this statement included me, because I am well aware that I am stupid and I am also, as I have said multiple times, a hypocrite. "Men need things presented to them directly and factually. Just be upfront. He's not psychic. Clyde's probably trying his best and is totally at a loss at what it was he said that pissed you off so much. If you both stop acting like children and actually communicate with each other, maybe you can actually make it work for once."

I expected her to rear up and take a deep breath and start tearing into me like a rabid dog. I figured I'd probably crossed another line I shouldn't have today. Instead, she asked, "Do you really think so?"

"I have no idea," I said blankly. "I really hope so, or else Clyde is just even more hopeless than I thought."

Bebe just released a frustrated sigh and stared up at the ceiling, perhaps begging for a conversation partner that was not me. Still, her tone returned to being civil. "I'm sorry I started yelling at you like that. It's just...bets, guys? Really? Are we in middle school?"

"We didn't have enough money in middle school to bet," I replied. Once again, I don't think it was the worst thing I could have said, but it certainly didn't help.

"Can you and Token just please, for once, not get involved in our relationship?"

"I don't get involved. I hate getting involved."

"That includes betting and talking about when you think we're going to break up next," she advocated. She was looking at me again, glaring at me as she had the fake tile all that time. "We both want to make this work. I know it's hard for you to believe that, but I really like Clyde."

"It's not hard for me to believe. Clyde is a likeable guy."

"Just-" Bebe held up a hand to deny me any additional input, pausing and thinking to herself for a moment before continuing. "Just please, all I'm asking for is a little respect. I'm sure you want the same for your own relationship."

"Trust me, unless someone gives me a reason to, I'll-" I stopped, the gears shifted, and I cut myself off mid-sentence. "Did you say 'my own relationship?'"

"Aren't you and Kenny dating now?" she asked, quizzically.

"No." I saw her eyes shift to the hickey on my neck. The polo I had to wear as employee dress code didn't cover it. "It's nothing," I said sharply. "We are not dating."

"Oh..." She blushed, nearly matching her nicely fitted sweater. "I'm sorry, I didn't...it's just, you know. The rumor mill."

"Yeah," I grunted. "Fuck that shit." I wondered who had perpetuated it. I seriously hoped not Token; I'd ring his neck for it.

"You, ah, you might want to somehow get the word out then," she suggested in a small voice. "I think it's already gotten around by now."

"It'll be the first thing I do after this fucking vacation is over," I assured her.

Bebe left to deal with Clyde, (ah, the tragedies of young love! God forbid I have to deal with any more of it for the rest of the school year) and I left to break down the cardboard boxes. The store was busy and I had a lot to do; restocking, breaking more boxes, inventory, and of course, cleaning. I was always cleaning.

Not that I was a neat freak. Far from it. My own bedroom was frequently a mess, with junk strewn all over the floor and my bed (if you want to call it that) never made. But I obsessed with cleaning the store. I liked it being clean. It contented me.

After a long day of obnoxious children smearing their various bodily secretions all over the display glass, I was finally in the process of returning them to something presentable.

The pet store didn't close until 9, but I usually left at 8, and even my increased schedule didn't include this last hour. That's because it was when the doors closed and everyone spent their time cleaning up the store, which was incredibly pointless to me given how I had spent the entire day cleaning it to begin with.

As such, it was about half past seven, and I didn't expect to be bothered any more today. I'd already had two strikes wearing out my patience, and the third strike would probably be the one to break it. Unfortunately, that third strike happened just as I pulled out my paper towels and Windex and began spraying. The third strike happened to be Kenny.

I'd started in the fish section rather than the rodents, and I was enjoying being hidden from sight by the giant fishbowl. I was engrossed in my work, wiping down the glass in neat, even, circular strokes, and then, from nowhere, from behind me, he said, "Hey there," as common and as simply as you please.

He startled me and I glanced over my shoulder. All I was doing was Windexing glass, and I felt like I'd been caught red-handed doing something pretty terrible.

Of course, it wasn't what I had done, but what I hadn't done. I hadn't called him in two days.

"Hey," I greeted. I pretended that his appearance did not in any way alarm or surprise me, and I continued my administrations on the glass.

"I heard the damnedest thing the other day," he said. Even though I couldn't see him, I knew, I just knew he was smirking. You could hear the fucking smirk in his voice. "I heard that Craig and Kenny were dating now; can you believe that? When did that even happen?"

"I don't know who started spreading it," I said. "It's the work of some infantile teenager in our school who can't keep their mouth shut. And," I added, allowing some of my usual cutting wit edge into my words, "I'm willing to bet that a certain hickey a certain asshole gave me didn't help."

"It's the damnedest thing," he said again. The way he sounded, I had a feeling his smirk had not dulled at all. "It's like, I could have sworn a certain asshole I gave a certain hickey to promised he would call me and set up a date. Am I crazy or what?"

Maybe it was his tone, maybe it was the perceived smirk I was hearing in it, or maybe my patience had just all but evaporated after a long work day. Whatever it was, I wasn't tolerating his teasing today. "Look." I crouched down to place my paper towel roll and the Windex bottle on the ground, and then I turned to face him, dead-on, crossing my arms and glaring him down with my most potent you're-pissing-me-off look. "I never said I wanted to date you. I said I'd be willing to go to a movie with you. I thought I made that very fucking clear."

"This is true," he acknowledged. "But you also didn't call me when you said you would."

"If you're pissed off at me because I didn't call you or something, then say so; I fucking hate games. I am so fucking tired of playing fuck-fuck games today, and if you even try with me, you're gonna strike out, buddy, because I'm not fucking having it."

"Alright," he said, and at first, I dreaded hearing him say that I had pissed him off and that he didn't even want to date me anymore anyway and that I should consider our unplanned movie date canceled, and by the way, fuck you. Then, he said in a perfectly reasonable, perfectly intellectual tone, "I'm not pissed off; I kind of expected it. Not because I have low expectations for you or anything, but I figured you'd want some time to let it settle first. I can come off kind of strong the first time around and I don't realize it because I'm usually a pretty low-key guy."

Needless to say, this admission and total dismissal of all guilt on my end totally took me off guard. Of all the people to be apologizing for how he comes off! "It's no big deal," I said awkwardly. Just like that, the bubbling frustration had just dissipated. "I mean, you didn't really do anything wrong." I guess I just sorta wasn't used to things being determined to be "not my fault." I guess maybe I sorta felt like they still were. I think I realized at the time that I'd fucked up and lashed out at him just because I was in a bad mood.

But Kenny didn't even hold it against me; it didn't even faze him. I didn't know what to do with him.

"Good," he said, sounding relieved. "I figured I probably scared you off with the whole, coming-onto-you-like-right-away thing."

Still sort of at a loss, I scoffed, "You'll have to try a lot harder than that to scare me off."

"Noted." The smirk was right back on his face, the same one I imagined him having that whole time while my back was turned. "So you get off work in, what, twenty minutes?"

"Something like that," I said.

"The penguin movie has one last showing at 8:10. We'll miss some of the previews, but we'll get to the movie in time."

I stared at him as I let this information process. "Tonight?"

"Yeah, tonight. Don't worry, I have enough to pay for myself," he assured me, as though something stupid like that was probably the worry topmost in my mind. "Hope you don't mind going Dutch though; I only got enough for me. But this ain't a date, right?"

"Right..."

"Sorry it's so last minute," he apologized. "But so far I've found that the best way to get you to do anything is to not give you any time to think about it."

"So I've noticed," I retorted dryly. "However, I do appreciate the blunt honesty, despite the fact that you're clearly manipulating me."

He just grinned. "It's worked so far, hasn't it?"

Unfortunately, it had worked before, and it continued to work. I said, "Sure, we can go. But it's not a date."

"Not a date," he confirmed. "I'm sure it'll do wonders for the rumor mill, though."

"It doesn't have to. Two guys going to a movie together doesn't have to mean anything."

"Not about that," he explained. "The fact that the movie we're going to see is about singing penguins."


	38. Part Four: Penguins in Afghanistan

Penguins in Afghanistan

I would like to make something explicitly clear, just state something for the record so you don't misunderstand me.

It's true that I was a very cold person and the thought of commitment made me nervous, but I wasn't like, totally against dating people or anything. Back in third grade, before I'd really figured out my sexuality, I'd dated a girl. We didn't kiss or anything, we just held hands and ate lunch together now and then, but that was it. We broke up pretty quickly.

Truth be told, that was my last relationship, and given that I was nine and I still thought kissing was pretty gross, I didn't really count it.

That didn't mean I was completely oblivious to things like relationships and sex. Like I said, I just didn't think there was anyone else for me to even consider having these things with. I didn't try very hard to find a significant other because it was pretty clear to me that lusting after straight boys was going to end in disaster, and as far as I knew, South Park only knew how to make 'em straight. Again, not that I'm vindictive. I know that God doesn't just rain homos down on every town and sometimes you just wind up with the short straw. It happens.

But despite my cool and detached exterior, I was just like any other shithead teenager on the inside. I drooled over sexy actors in movies, (Clyde had Cate Blanchett; I had Leonardo DiCaprio) and I did have a sex drive, one not quite so illustrious as Kenny McCormick's but one that did in fact exist. I mostly sated it with porn; I had a soft spot for twinks.

Every now and then I'd meet a bangable guy and wonder if he might be into other guys, which, by the way, was never the case. So don't look at me as some like, uncharted desert island at this point. Being a virgin doesn't mean that someone's a naïve idiot, or a completely hopeless case until they "just find the right person."

The reason I didn't want to consider this a date was because I still hadn't made up my mind whether or not Kenny was worth my time. I didn't know enough about him to want to even contemplate making a commitment, to even consider using a word like "boyfriend" to refer to him. If it didn't work out, it was way easier to just say we had never tried at all than to say we had tried and failed. That was how my mind worked.

Kenny was kind enough to give me some time to myself to finish up my last few tasks. By that I mean, I told him to go away because he was distracting me and I had work to do.

I'd half expected him to just smirk at me and say, 'No,' in that impudent voice of his and continue to trail along behind me, chattering and distracting me, but he didn't. When I told him to buzz off, he didn't look remotely stung by it; he just nodded and then wandered off in the store to browse until I clocked out.

I managed to finish all of the fish tanks and rodent displays by about five after eight. I didn't mind leaving a little late if it mean finishing my tasks; I would rather stay to the end and know it was done than simply drop everything in the middle of it just because a clock was telling me to.

"Are you done?" Kenny asked me more than once, and when I finally replied in the affirmative, he rolled his eyes and sighed in relief. "Finally; I was starting to wonder if maybe you were trying to keep busy so you wouldn't have to go."

"Why would I do that?" I asked. We were standing by the door, and he was waiting for me to finish pulling on my coat.

"I don't know, maybe you say you want to go but you don't really mean it."

"If I didn't want to go, I would have said so. I said I wanted to go, so I want to. I mean exactly what I say."

"Alright," he said. I think he was just humoring me.

The Focus was sitting in the parking lot. The Bijou was probably a five minute drive, if that, and I didn't anticipate a lot of conversation in between point A and point B. However, on the way there, I did ask a question that had been eating at me for a while.

"Whose car is this?"

"Ours?" he answered with a bemused shrug. "The folks are handy with 'em and they're pretty good at cannibalizing old heaps of junk for parts 'n such. This one was out a radiator a few weeks back. We're probably gonna sell it at some point."

"I see." I'll save my comments on Kenny's family for another chapter, but this was admittedly one of the more honest methods I'd heard of for them earning a living.

"That's it?" Kenny asked. "I see?"

"What else am I supposed to say?" I answered blankly. "Should I be enthusiastic that you scrap and sell cars?"

"I don't know. You don't know a lot about me. Sometimes, people who may or may not be interested in other people ask questions about them, and there's lots you can ask from a little statement like that."

"If you want me to pretend I'm interested in you because you want to talk about yourself, say so."

"If I'm honest, 'pretend' wasn't exactly the word I was going for. I was kinda hoping you might just be interested enough on your own."

"Mostly, the thing I want to know is if you have a license."

"Sure do," he confirmed, and I felt a little better for about three seconds before he added, "Couldn't tell ya where the fucker is though, lost it a while ago."

We arrived at the Bijou nearly a quarter after, and despite being a little late, we were still able to pick up tickets for the movie. Neither of us wanted to waste money on concessions, so we just walked on in. It was dark and kind of a pain to find seats at first, but we managed.

"Damn, there's a lot of kids in here," he whispered. The theater was probably less than a third of the way full, but there were a lot of younger kids considering it was a later showing.

"It's a kid movie," I pointed out with my usual curtness. "There's bound to be kids watching it. Now shut up, I'm watching the previews."

Kenny ignored me. "Yeah, but this late, I thought maybe it'd be a little emptier."

"I wasn't going to give you a blowjob even if the place had been empty," I said frankly.

He let off a loud, airy laugh and a few people turned to look at him. He kept his voice down, mumbling out of the side of his mouth. "You're catching on quick," he teased.

"You aren't being very subtle."

"True, but I was thinking something more discreet, maybe a handy?"

"No."

Kenny snapped his fingers and said, "Darn it," in that humble, "aw shucks" kinda way.

"Did you really think I would?" I asked doubtfully. I didn't think even he would stoop that low, but it was worth asking to make sure.

"No, but if you said no, I'd still get to watch a movie with you, and if you said yes, I'd get a handjob out of it. Win-win. This just means I can pretend to stretch and then throw my arm over you later."

"If you touch me in any way, I'm breaking your fingers and then leaving."

Kenny put a finger to his lips. "Shh, I wanna watch the previews," he admonished. And then he sat back in his seat, very intently observing the screen.

He didn't throw his arm over me or try to hold my hand or do any of those other obnoxious romance cliches, which I appreciated, because I was into the movie from the start. Happy Feet was a good movie, for the record. It got pretty mixed reviews, but it was good, and I thought it did a good job of shedding some light on the effects of humans on marine wildlife, at least in a way that children would understand.

To this day, I continue to balk and plead with people to go see animated movies with me, whether it's singing penguins or singing mice or whatever cute animal happens to be singing for that summer's big blockbuster hit. The fact that I never had any children of my own always sort of hindered my ability to freely watch kid films, but I always enjoyed taking my nieces and nephews.

Films intended for children should really be intended for everyone. They have solid story lines that focus on achieving something rather than just senseless romance, and the characters are often way more easy to relate to, and there's always something to learn at the end. Everything always mattered.

During the movie, I did notice him scoff once or twice, and now and then he would lean over and hide his face into his hand and shake his head, but otherwise, he remained quiet and attentive throughout the film, and he didn't say a condescending word throughout it. The last time I dragged Clyde to a kid's movie, he hadn't shut up, and I'd been forced to kick him in the shin multiple times. The fact that Kenny was capable of shutting up sometimes and just providing quiet companionship was nice. The closest I got to that in my group was Token, and truth was I didn't hang out with him nearly enough.

When the movie was over and we rose to leave the theater, he commented, "That was cute."

"Mmhmm."

"Did you like it?"

"Mmhmm." I'm not very talkative after a movie. I like to let it linger on my mind for a bit, let it settle in my head. Kenny, however, had other ideas.

"You're smiling," he pointed out.

I was, but it very quickly melted away after Kenny pointed it out. "What's it to you?" I reproached.

"I like seeing you smile?" he said with a half shrug. We were still walking side by side. "I think you're cute when you smile, I wasn't teasing you."

"Do you have to keep doing that?"

"What?"

"Calling me cute," I elaborated, despite the fact that just mentioning it made my face flush a little. "It's annoying and embarrassing. Cute is like,Happy Feet. Dancing penguins. Not me."

"Yeah, but you're the guy who likes honesty, and I'm just being honest."

"Do you have to keep saying it, though?"

"I have plenty of other words for it if it makes you happy." Kenny began to list them off. "Hot, smokin', bombin', roastin', scorchin', juicy, foxy, fine, and most of all, sexy."

If I thought I'd been blushing before, that was chicken feed now. Now I was smoking, roasting, and scorching, and not exactly in the way Kenny meant it. "Maybe you could just not use any of them," I suggested.

"How come?"

"Maybe certain people don't really want to be told that."

Kenny just chuckled. "Maybe I just like making you blush."

"Why?" I demanded without thinking. I walked right into it; hook, line, and sinker.

"Because I think it's cute," Kenny replied, and he grinned.

Whether he liked it or not, my blush faded very quickly when we emerged from the Bijou. It was still colder than a witch's tit outside, and it sucked all of the warm right out of you. But rather than hustle back to the Focus like we should have, we walked along the outside of the theater. Like we had all the time in the world, (we did; it was just after ten, and like typical teenagers we had nothing better to do) we strolled down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, looking up and down at the movie posters as we went.

"Clyde wanted to see that one," I mentioned offhand as we passed Babel .

"Never saw it, looked like it'd be too hard to keep up with."

"Yeah, they eventually saw this other one; I can't remember the name of it right now."

"Lame."

"Fuck," I swore. "My hands are cold..." I hadn't brought any gloves with me to the pet store, and now, walking around in the gnawing cold, they ached.

Kenny attempted to smoothly reach over and grab my hand in his, and just as smoothly I avoided him and inserted my hands into my pockets. And a-swing-and-a-miss. He didn't seem terribly disappointed.

"New Leo movie out," Kenny said, nodding towards the next poster as we passed it.

"Oh yeah, Blood Diamond. Gotta see that some time."

"Yeah, Leo's alright," Kenny agreed. "Not sure he'll ever top Titanic , but he's not bad."

Alright , he said. Not bad , he said. Don't even get me started.

"Ugh...this one pisses me off." The next one I had only heard of vaguely, and I wasn't familiar. "I'm so fucking tired of Hollywood milking residual emotion from wars."

"Letters from Iwo Jima," I read. "Another Flags of Our Fathers, I'm guessing, another heartfelt ode to Marines?"

"Not exactly, but good catch; this one's also Clint Eastwood's. Admittedly, this one's a little better; this one shows it from the Japanese perspective with us as the antagonists."

"So you're saying it's better because it makes us out to be the bad guys rather than the heroes?" I said dryly. I was recalling his tendency to remain seated during the pledge and wondering if he was finally going to reveal a little of his thought process over it.

"I'm saying it's nice that someone thought to look at it from the other side of the coin for once," he replied tersely. "I'm saying that whole, 'We had to destroy the village in order to save it' mentality only goes so far for me. But, no, like I said, it still pisses me off that people are appealing to the tragedies of war to spin a dollar."

"People write stories and make movies over everything," I reasoned. "There's war movies and family drama movies and space exploration movies and high school relationship movies; why should you be upset about just these types of movies in particular?"

"Because they glorify murder and suffering." His voice had very quickly diverted from his usual chipper tone to something very hard and unforgiving. It was a drastic change, a disconcerting one, and I was both puzzled and alarmed over it. I'd never seen Kenny in a state like that before. "Usually it's all about how we heard about the bad guys doing all these terrible things, and we have to go in and police them up. Then we suffer countless casualties to make people angry so that when the bad guys die, the non-Americans, we cheer, and we can be the heroes. Even in this one, the Letters from Iwo Jima one, do you know how many Americans die compared to Japanese in this film? There's no comparison. Do you know how brainless and inhuman most of their soldiers are portrayed? Even from their perspective, we're still the good guys."

"In Clint's defense, Japan was kinda fucking crazy in WWII."

Kenny glare me a harsh glare, eyes sharp and cutting, and I wished I hadn't said anything. "Is that supposed to be a joke?" he demanded of me.

"Kinda. I'm not very good at making jokes, remember?"

His glare softened and he looked away from me. He released a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to get all preachy over it, don't mind me."

"It's whatever." We happened to be passing the last poster at the time, coming up on the edge of the theater, and the last one caught my eye. "Hey, that's it. That's the one."

Kenny glanced back over at me, kind of listlessly. His gaze was still far away somewhere, deep in thought. "What is it?"

" Harsh Times. The one they went to see instead of Babel. You'd like that one, it's got Christian Bale in it."

I pointed to the poster, slowing down even more so Kenny could get a good look at it, but when he saw it, he was less than impressed. In fact, the hardness returned to his voice again.

"See, that's the sort of shit I'm talking about."

"It's not about war though," I said.

"It's about an Army guy who came home with PTSD and is clearly not mentally stable. And that's the premise of the movie: this poor guy who was deployed and saw God knows over in the Middle East, and when he comes home, he's so fucked up in the head that he does fucked up things. And that's our entertainment. Our entertainment is this man's suffering."

"It's a movie," I deadpanned, hoping that it might nudge him out of another rant, hoping that perhaps my utter indifference might in some way mitigate his rising fervor. "It's not real."

"Yeah? Do ya think it's good entertainment because it's fictitious? Because it's got good writing and witty dialogue?" Kenny was beyond preaching at this point; he was on a tangent. "No, it's because it's horrifying because it could be real, because you know it fucking happens every day. The best movies are the ones that have a ring of truth in them. How many soldiers leave the Army missing a few marbles? How many of them are walking around with PTSD, sometimes undiagnosed, sometimes without their VA benefits because of some fucked up loophole in the system, and how many of them murder their wives and children and random strangers or even off themselves, and how many of those poor fuckers are gonna be our entertainment? Why the hell do we send these men to war so that we can oogle over their deaths in battle and then oogle over their suffering when they return home?"

"See, this is why I prefer to see movies like Happy Feet, " I replied in response to all of this. "I don't want to deal with any of that. I don't want to see any of that. I just want happy dancing penguins." I thought it might mollify him a little to remind him that I didn't revel in movies that made war and trauma romantic notions, but I was dead wrong.

"Well ya know what, that's fucking weak too." He spat on the ground, and he kept walking. I tried to remain in place, staying in the light of the Bijou as he strayed off into the darkness, but he didn't even seem to notice. He just kept going. So I followed him. I didn't have to ask why he thought my way was no better than the other way. "It's bad enough to glorify the suffering, to be proud of it or to enjoy watching it, but to ignore it completely is detestable. I can understand where you're coming from if you really support the war, if you really admire the men who fight for your country because you think it's right, but to feel absolutely nothing for it is just..." Kenny stopped talking. I was still a few steps behind him, and he turned, allowing me to catch up. Even without the shadows masking it, I couldn't read the expression on his face. But I had a feeling he had stopped because he'd realized that he was on the verge of calling those people some very cruel things, and he'd realized that it all applied to me.

"I'm not saying I want to ignore the war completely," I amended, although as you are aware, it was preferential to me to forget its existence as much as possible. "I'm saying, like, with all of the shit going on in the world, what's the harm in looking for wholesome entertainment? I'm not like, passionately against those movies like you are, but on the other hand, I don't see the entertainment value in them either. I don't think they're interesting because America killed all of the bad guys and saved the day or whatever."

"That's good," he said absently. Then, he apologized. "I'm sorry again, I just get really worked up about these kinda things. I just care a lot. I don't think you're a bad person for not caring, though, I swear. I'm really sorry for implying that, sometimes I don't think-"

"I told you to stop apologizing to me," I interrupted, nudging him.

"Okay."

Like he'd suddenly regained his senses, he looked up, glancing around for a minute, almost as if he weren't sure where he was, and then he returned to me. "Wanna head back to the car?" he asked.

"Yeah," I replied.

Our return to the Focus was silent nearly the whole way there. We were parked near the rear of the parking lot, so it was a fair trek from where we'd walked to and back. It wasn't until we were passing rows of empty parking spaces and the occasional remaining car that he finally spoke again.

"Do you want to do anything after this?"

"Nah," I replied. "I can only tolerate so much social outing in one go. It's time for me to go hide in my little solitude bubble again."

"I figured. I hope I didn't scare you off," he said, in a manner that was both somehow teasing and sincere. "Hope you aren't trying to run as fast as you can and never look back 'cuz you think I'm some crazy peacenik or something."

"I already told you, you're gonna have to try a lot harder than that to scare me off. And I don't think you're a crazy peacenik."

"For someone who despises human interaction so much, you sure are tolerant of it."

"People have passionate thoughts about different things," I said. "I'm hoping that the penguin movie will somehow inspire people to become more aware of overfishing and ocean pollution. You think that Hollywood is making Afghanistan a cashcow."

Kenny barked out a laugh. It was a single cold plume of mist from his lips. "I think a lot of things about Afghanistan," he said. "Afghanistan and Iraq and Pakistan and all of it. It's all a load of shit."

"You hate that we're over there," I guessed. "I care about the welfare of the penguins; you care about the welfare of the soldiers." I thought that I'd never pointed out something so obvious, but Kenny didn't exactly agree.

"Like I said, I think a lot about it. There's a lot of shit wrong in the world, a lot of shit wrong with our government, and a lot of shit wrong with the guys who go over there willingly. We aren't talking some poor dumb birds getting their food source depleted by humans, dying through no fault of their own. I ain't got a whole lot of sympathy for the poor bastards who sign their lives away to go fight in some war they don't know shit about. I feel for them because they think they're serving their country when they're just pawns in a political shitstorm, and I pity the suffering they have to endure in the Middle East, but it's hard for me to say I pity them."

"Pity isn't going to really help anyone anyway," I pointed out.

"Damn skippy, it ain't. But let me tell you somethin' Craig: there ain't no penguins in Afghanistan, that's for damn sure."

I wasn't exactly sure what he meant by this, and so I did not reply. He didn't seem to expect me to.

We reached the Focus and we yanked open the doors and hopped inside, and then, without any explanation or further insight, he started the car, turned on the heat, and he drove me home. Rather than continue to pollute the atmosphere with heavy topics like war, we listened to the radio the whole way there. The station continued to throw rock at us, heavy drums and epic guitar solos, and I admit, it was kind of a nice change from the synthetic stuff I always indulged in with Tweek; more real, more heartfelt.

When Kenny pulled up to my house, he leaned back in his seat and he looked at me with his stupid cocky grin and his stupid blue eyes just twinkling with mischief. He was back to his old self, it seemed; the transition had been flawless. "Thanks for letting me kidnap you from work," he said. "I enjoyed our not-date, even if I did wind up getting kinda pissy at the end."

"You're welcome. Thank you for not apologizing for it again."

"'course; if you're willing to forgive it then I'm not gonna keep apologizing for it."

I breathed a noisy sigh of relief. "Thank you. That's exactly what I want to hear. I don't know why this is so hard for everyone else to understand."

"Well, I'm not everyone else." I realized he was looking at me expectantly, when I noticed, he puckered his lips and made a distinct kissing noise. "Good night kiss tonight?"

"No."

"Aw, come on," he goaded.

"No."

"Christ. No handy, no good night kiss; what's a guy gotta do to get you to put out?"

"Not asking constantly would be a good start."

"What if I were offering to give you a handy instead?" he asked suggestively, and his hand started creeping towards my leg.

"Good night." I opened the car door and stepped out while Kenny continued to pout and say my name in a pining whine. I shut the door behind me, not looking back at him, and I began to head up my driveway. I figured he would take his leave when I got to my door again, but he didn't.

"Hey-" I glanced over my shoulder. He'd reached over and rolled down the window, and he was calling to me through it. "Listen, though, for real... do you want to do this again?"

"Do what again?" I asked. "We didn't even do nothin'."

"I'm cool with that," he answered. "Can I do nothin' again with you?"

I thought about it, and I thought about how Kenny had done nothing but annoy me in various ways throughout the entire evening, and I thought that, yeah, I wanted to see him again. Straightforward flirting and objectionable tangents aside, I didn't mind being around him. "I guess."

"Great. So, are you going to really call me this time, or should I take down your number?"

I hesitated, and then I turned and walked back to the car. He was practically hanging out of the passenger side by this point. "You'd better take mine," I admitted. "I probably won't call you."

"But the fact that you want me to have your number means that you want me to call you," he explained in my stead, and then he nodded sagely, like it was all becoming clear now.

"No need to jump for joy," I muttered, and I rattled off my number while he jammed it into a phone that was likely several years older than mine, and I've already explained to you that mine was by no means recent technology.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he promised. "Or, maybe I'll call you tonight and see if you're down for some raunchy phone sex."

"You're disgusting," I informed him.

He just laughed. He seemed to think it was a compliment. "And you're a prude. But I'll get you to come around, don't worry."

"Sure," I said wryly. "I'm secretly just itching to jump into the sack with you and I can't wait for your wily charms and sexual prowess to unleash my inner sex fiend."

Kenny's smile didn't even falter, not for a second. "Snark at me all you want," he said. "I think it's kinda sexy. It gives me something to think about later when I'm all alone." He stuck out his tongue and seductively licked his lips, and he wiggled his eyebrows at me.

"You are disgusting," I said again, this time a little more amused. I couldn't tell if his overt flirting was more playful joshing or painful honesty, but whichever it was, it was a little flattering for him to essentially admit that he might masturbate to the thought of me later, and that actually kind of turned me on. I mean, Kenny insisted on calling me cute, and the truth was that I considered myself a moderately attractive person. I just didn't exactly think I was enough to provide sufficient jerk off material. It was kind of invigorating.

"So, one last time, just in case: do I get a good night kiss tonight?"

I suddenly, acutely wanted to kiss him. He was just hanging out of the window, propping up his head on his arms, looking up at me with these big puppy dog eyes and his cute little smirk all over his face. It would have been so easy to just lean down and give him a little peck and call that the end of it. It didn't have to be special.

But I didn't. I took too long to decide, took a few extra seconds, and when I truly considered just saying fuck it and bending down and kissing him, it felt wrong, it felt like the timing would be off. I couldn't bring myself to do it. "I already said no," I told him.

He snapped his fingers again and said, "Darn," in that homey, "aw shucks" kinda way. Again, my reluctance didn't seem to faze him.

I didn't give myself time to second guess my decision. "I'll see you," I told him, and I turned around again.

"Night!" he called after me. As before, he waited until I got to my door before pulling off, but instead of doing so quietly, he yelled out the window after me: "Have some sweet, wet dreams Craig!"

As I opened the door, I turned just enough to flip him the bird, and I could hear him laughing all the way from the car. Then I slipped inside and left him.

My dreams were by no means wet, for the record. Give me some credit; I wasn't that desperate.

However, while it's embarrassing, I will admit that they were about Kenny. I think his tirade had gotten under my skin a lot more than I realized.

I think we were in Afghanistan, although I wasn't sure if we were soldiers or not. All I know is that it was a desert, pitch black, but it was fucking cold. Our vehicle had been hit by an IED and flipped off the side of the road, and the fire was scorching the side of my face as I knelt in the dirt. Kenny was dying in my arms, and my clothes were warm with his blood in the briskness of the air. I told him he didn't have to die, that I didn't wanthim to die, and he told me he didn't mind it; he said he had to make sacrifices all the time, he may as well make some for the penguins. Besides, after this he could retire to Florida and be fuckin' warm for once.

Dreams never make a lot of sense, and I often disregarded them. But it disturbed me to dream about Kenny dying like that, like a bad omen almost.

I didn't believe in omens any more than I believed in luck, but still, I wondered.


	39. Part Four: Books for Dinner

Books for Dinner

Kenny never called me for that raunchy phone sex; it turned out he didn't have a lot of minutes and he couldn't really use his phone for phone calls, which was fine with me, because I didn't care for talking to people on the phone. However, texting was still a viable option, and we took to it quick. I was still a few weeks shy of the first iPhone, but we got by on what we had.

We were able to talk a lot more freely in text than we were in reality. He messaged me all the time about inconsequential things and I messaged him all the time about whatever popped into mind. When he complained about his family, I complained right back, and when I balked about holiday festivity, he teased me about being a Scrooge. I'd text him ranting about the stupidity of my customers while he had plenty to say about the stupidity of his friends, though he never gave me exact details.

Very quickly, I got used to texting Kenny throughout the day, and despite his absence over the winter holidays, he became a very constant source of companionship for me, which was very useful as most of my friends were too busy with their own holiday cheer to hang out. We hadn't exactly taken that next step yet, the step that involved things like relationship talk and using words like "boyfriend" or God forbid, the "L" word, but we very quickly grew accustomed to each others' presence, even if it was just through little messages.

My parents began commenting about how I was always smiling at my phone now, (they liked it; said it was a nice change) and Ruby promptly began teasing me about having a boyfriend. I denied it at first, but eventually it tired me too much to even respond, and I just let her think what she thought. I didn't consider Kenny my boyfriend though; that's for sure.

Although, every now and then, Kenny would make a bold attempt at sexting me, and every time I shut him down, he would always reply with the exact same emoticons in the exact same order:

:( ;P

Finally, a day or two after Christmas, Kenny called me.

"I wanna hang out," he whined. Though he couldn't see me anyway, I resisted the urge to smile. "I'm tired of being around my family."

"Go out with your friends," I suggested.

"I've been hanging out with them all break long; I'm tired of them."

"I'm still not giving you a blowjob, or a handy."

"Not even for Christmas?" he said, aghast.

"Not even then."

"Wow, dude. You're fucking cold. We haven't been going out three weeks-"

"Exactly, we haven't been going out at all."

"You're just an asshole, you know that?"

Just below the attic, in the hallway, I could hear my parents arguing about one thing or another. It happened sometimes; it didn't exactly upset me (or surprise me) but it did annoy me, and I think some of that annoyance slipped into my reply.

"Yeah, I know," I answered. Spot was crawling around on my bed, and before he could waddle too close to the edge and fall right off, I reached over and dragged him right back again.

"You alright?" he asked. Even on the phone, he was too damn perceptive.

"I'm fine, the folks are just at it for some reason. Fuck them," I added. "Don't know why they can't just talk like normal people."

"I hear ya," he said sympathetically. Then, "So, do you wanna come to my place?"

"I already told you-"

"Not for that, jackass. I just thought maybe you'd like to escape for a bit. Plus I wanted to give you something."

"I don't like gifts," I replied. "I don't even like when my friends buy me gifts."

"Alright, so it's not a gift then. Then maybe just come over for a bit for the fuck of it?" I silently thought it over until Kenny eventually started nudging me: "Maybe just to see my gorgeous face? You could whip out some sarcasm at me and give me a few steely glares so I have new material for later."

"You're a disgusting pervert," I told him. "I'll be ready in ten."

"Gotcha."

My parents had locked themselves in their room and low grumbling arguing was still seeping from the door. I slipped right by and waited outside, and when Kenny showed up, I just jogged over and hopped right in the car, and I didn't say a word. I hadn't seen him since the movie night, but it wasn't quite as awkward as last time. I felt comfortable sitting next to him now, even if when he greeted me he tried feeling up my thigh and I had to smack his hand away.

"So how's your gang doing?" he asked. I never even wanted to talk about his, but he was considerate enough to ask about mine every now and then. "Haven't seen any of them around lately."

"Token's in New York and Clyde's in Arvada," I explained. "Jimmy's just spending time with his family and Tweek's doing time at the coffee shop."

"I see. Been a pretty lonely couple of weeks for you then, huh?"

"Yeah." I kind of wanted to add something about how texting him had been a welcome reprieve from my stagnating loneliness, but saying something like that to Kenny was just asking for trouble.

"Did Tweek finally calm down about the whole 'me' thing?" Kenny asked, sounding kinda amused as he said it.

"Sort of. He finally believes me when I say neither of us is going to get in trouble over the mural, but he didn't seem to take too well to the idea of me dating you. Even though I told him we weren't dating," I added when his mouth opened to spit out what I presumed to be some smart remark. "Tweek seems to think you're trouble and I shouldn't be hanging around with you."

"Funny," Kenny mused. "That's exactly how I feel about Tweek."

"Regrettably, I said that," I informed him. "I didn't hear the end of it all night."

Kenny lived "across the train tracks," which was Parkspeak for "the ghetto." There weren't a lot of folks who lived past the train tracks, but they were all pretty bad off when it came to money, and the McCormicks were probably the worst. Their little shanty of a house was painfully small compared to ours, and there wasn't even a proper road leading to it; just a dirt path. As the Focus rumbled along and eventually came to a halt just beyond what I suppose was intended to be their front lawn, we could both hear it, even from a distance. Yelling, screaming, swearing.

"Christ," Kenny muttered. He ran a hand through his hair and blew out a thin sigh. "They were both passed out drunk when I left 'em, I swear."

"It's okay," I said. "Not your fault."

"We could just drive around for a while, I guess. Or I can take you back home."

"In a minute. You said you have something to give me," I reminded him. I was curious, because we'd already strictly agreed not to exchange Christmas presents, and I sort of wondered what a broke ass punk like Kenny could afford to give me.

"Yeah, that's true. Only if you don't mind going where others don't dare to tread."

"It's your house," I said impatiently. "Not an uncharted island."

"If I had to compare it, it's more like Mordor."

"Please don't," I pleaded. "Clyde is obsessed with Lord of the Rings. I'm exhausted by it."

Kenny gave me a thoughtful frown. "I was under the impression that you liked it."

"I tolerate it. There's a difference." Kenny had proven to be astonishingly astute when it came to things I liked and didn't like, and I felt the need to point this out to him. "You're finally wrong, for once. So can we just go?"

"Suit yourself," he replied, and we both left the car and began heading towards his home.

I think Kenny was either numbed as to how bad his home actually was, or else completely delusional. It went beyond the peeling paint and the floor that was either patched with carpet or stained with something I didn't want to identify and the broken down furniture and the rank odor of mold and decay and cats and cheap beer that permeated every inch of the place. It was the atmosphere. Other than the fact that the place was a dump, (literally; there was an unofficial trash heap practically in their back yard and the city contributed to it on occasion) there was a suffocating atmosphere of dereliction and complete hopelessness, and there was also the fighting.

It had been a long time since I'd been to their home, at least since we were kids, and either it had gotten a lot worse since I'd last been around, or I'd lost those pleasant childhood kaleidoscopes that seem to come preinstalled so that kids can conveniently ignore things. Whatever it was, when I went there, things were pretty bad.

Kenny mercilessly kicked his way through the stray cats trying to crawl up his legs, and at first, I was kind of confused. I'd been under the impression that Kenny liked animals, most of all cats.

"Pay as little attention to them as possible," he assured me. "The outsiders and strays done lost all their marbles. 'S no good to even pet 'em." There were at least half a dozen, and probably more hiding around the property somewhere. They were scrawny and mangy and looked half-crazed as they surrounded us, gawking, meowing, and for the first time, I was legitimately creeped out by animals. I was not entirely certain that the McCormicks had a case of demonic possession amongst their cats, but I didn't rule it out, either.

He didn't even unlock the door; he just threw it open and marched right inside. I tentatively followed along after him, closing the door behind me, and I could plainly hear the fight going down in the kitchen. I will spare you the tedious details; it involved his dad calling his mom a bitch and his mom calling his dad a drunk asshole and both of them using more cuss words in between than my mother thought I even knew altogether.

I assure you, I did know them. They weren't very nice, I promise. I'll spare you.

Kenny put two fingers between his lips and whistled, loud and piercing. It didn't draw their attention the first time, so he tried shouting. "Hey!" Again, unsuccessful. "HEY!"

Finally, his dad acknowledged him, and, again, in a not very nice way. "Damn it Kenny, fuckin' stay out of this! This ain't got nothin' to do with you."

"Kenny, honey, just go to your room." His mom didn't exactly switch tones going between her husband to her son, so it sounded more like a death threat than a motherly suggestion. Even the "honey" was laced with arsenic.

"I'm not getting' involved, I'm just informing you two that we got company." Kenny jerked a thumb at me, and they both jerked their heads at me. I just stood there. If I'd had more humility I might have acted a little embarrassed at walking into their home and catching them arguing. Considering how I was, I just stared at them, hoping I was projecting complete disinterest rather than rising disgust.

"Oh, hi there." All at once, his mother sounded a good deal calmer, if a little meeker. "Nice to meet you. You two go to school together?"

"Yes ma'am," I answered.

"Yer Tom Tucker's boy, arentcha?" his father asked.

"Yes sir," I answered.

"Never did like that fella..."

"Anyway," Kenny interrupted loudly as his mother began castigating her husband, going on about how he couldn't just tell perfect strangers that he didn't like their parents and whatnot. "We're gonna be in my room. Couldya maybe keep it down a notch?"

The fact that a child could ask his parents to "keep it down a notch" when they were arguing was just unreal to me. The fact that both of his parents agreed that they would and then simply left to argue outside was even more surreal.

Some people live in very different worlds; Kenny seemed to live on another planet.

"Sorry 'bout that," he apologized after they'd left.

"What is wrong with your family?" I asked. Recall, I was not exactly an illustrious tactician.

Kenny just released a short, dry laugh. "Trust me, I been askin' myself that for years."

His room was not much better than the rest of the house. It had a full carpet rather than patches, which was nice, and while it was plenty stained, it seemed like someone had at least attempted to clean up the stains at some point. There was an old bed sheet over the window instead of a curtain; it may have once been white, but it was either so old it had turned gray or it had collected who knows how much dust after hanging up there for who knows how long without being beaten out. The closet door was broken and hanging on by its bare fingers, and there were various holes in the wall where someone, either Kenny or some other member of his crazed family, had simply punched right through it. At the time I didn't think Kenny was the senselessly violent type to just up and punch a wall, but I reminded myself that, as of then, I didn't really know a lot about him. Not really.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he said dryly. "Are you wishing we'd gone somewhere else yet?"

"Um..."

"It's not a trick question," he assured me. "My house sucks. No one wants to visit here. It's depressing to them."

"'No one wants to visit here?'" I repeated. "You live here."

"Some might call it that," he answered with a shrug.

The only light in his room was a yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling with a shoe string dangling down from it, and Kenny heedlessly yanked it so that it swung freely above his head. Then, he pounced onto his bed, boots and all, and then just settled down on it, turning over onto his back and propping himself up with his arms, crossing his legs, and then grinning up at me. "Care to join me in bed?" he joked.

"Is it safe?" I asked.

"What, my bed?" The sheets on the bed didn't look all that much better than the sheet hanging over the window; it was equally as dingy and a good deal more holey, and there was a lot more cat hair on it than I thought was strictly allowable for a place where one was intended to sleep. "It's not gonna bite you."

There was no where else to really sit in the room, but I opted against joining him. "Does this something you were gonna give me involve the bed?" I asked sardonically.

Kenny ran his tongue over his teeth and wiggled his eyebrows at me. "It can be if you want it to be."

"No thanks."

There came a persistent scraping noise at the door, and a demanding yowl soon followed. I regarded it with suspicion, but Kenny just lazily raised his hand and gestured towards it.

"Could you get that?" he asked.

"Fuck no," I said. I had no interest in putting myself anywhere near the possessed felines of the McCormick household, even if just in passing.

Kenny just rolled his eyes. "It's probably just Fatass dude; don't be so freaked."

I was about to ask him what he meant by Fatass, (in Kenny's group of friends, Cartman was usually referred to as Fatass nearly as often as his name, and at first it confused me) but before I could, he hopped out of bed and headed for the door. He opened it a few inches until a cat darted inside, and Christ, it was huge, or it appeared to be. The animal was covered in thick gray fur that probably doubled its true size.

After Kenny shut the door again, he trailed back to the bed, and the cat dove in and out of his legs, slowing down now and then to rub on them and meow loudly upward. Then, when Kenny jumped back onto the bed, back first, and he propped his head up again, the cat jumped right up there with him, right onto his chest, and then laid down primly. Kenny stroked the cat's back, and he began to purr.

"Nice to see at least this one is normal," I said dryly.

Kenny just let his head flop towards me and he grinned. "Our inside cats are real nice," he explained. "It's just the other ones that are Satan spawn."

"You ain't kiddin'," I scoffed. I'd begun walking around his room, looking for something to do. My options at that point were either stand there and look awkwardly bored, join Kenny on the bed, (which was probably a bad idea for a number of reasons I probably don't need to elaborate) or walk around. I chose the slightly more productive one.

"I've had Fatass since I was like, seven I think? He's my favorite."

"...You named your cat 'Fatass?'"

"Well, look at him!" he said defensively. "Doesn't he look like a huge fatass?"

"Whatever you say," I told him.

"Here I have pictures of my other ones-"

"I'm good."

There wasn't a whole lot to see in his room. A lot of it was unsurprising and uninspiring; Playboy centerfolds stuck up with thumbtacks beside various album covers, dirty clothes that probably never got properly washed and likely just went through cycles of being thrown on the floor and then eventually reused again, an unreasonable abundance of cat toys, and, in the closet, a familiar looking hood and cape, the only thing stored on a hanger.

"Here, these're some good ones."

I glanced over my shoulder. "A good one of what?"

"The cats," Kenny repeated, like I must have been slow or something.

"I said I'm good."

"I'm one of those obnoxious people who likes showing pictures of their pets to people. So come humor me?" he said hopefully.

"I'm still thinking about this thing you said you were giving me."

"Yeah, yeah, you would be. You hate surprises, don't you?"

"Maybe." Still, I finally headed for the bed, and Kenny spun around so that he was sitting off the edge, in the process disturbing Fatass so that he yowled irritably and jumped off. I sat next to him and leaned over; he had his wallet out, a worn-down leather one hanging together by strings, and it was full of pictures.

"You already know Fatass obviously," he said, putting away one of a seven year old Kenny holding up an enormous cat nearly half his size. The next one contained three cats sprawled across his and his sister's laps, one of them Fatass, one of them a ginger tabby and the other a sleek black cat.

"This one's Kenny," he said, pointing to the orange one, and he fully anticipated the stare I threw at him immediately afterward. "Karen named it," he explained. "She said he reminded her of me and it sort of stuck."

"You have a cat named after you," I repeated incredulously.

"Yup."

"Doesn't that get kind of confusing?"

"Nope, you just say it a little differently." He moved on, pointing to the next one. "That's Princess Pussy-"

"Please tell me you mean 'pussy' meaning 'cat.'"

Kenny chortled, "Yeah, that's another one from Karen. I didn't mind; I thought it was funny as shit to call out 'Come eat Pussy!' when I was feeding them."

I couldn't even respond; I just placed my palm over my face and shook my head into it.

"This one's Shitferbrains," he said, moving onto the next picture.

I couldn't even remove my hand from my eyes long enough to look at it. "Do any of your cats have normal names?"

"Kenny's a normal name," he answered.

"But it's named after you."

"You sayin' I'm not normal?" he teased.

I finally dropped my hand and looked at the next picture. The cat was white with a bit of brown on its head and, admittedly, it looked like it had just stuck its head in shit.

"Shit's not very smart," Kenny admitted as he put it away. "He keeps pissin' off my dad and then he keeps getting' kicked. He usually just hides now."

The next one was a kitten held up by his sister, a tortoiseshell without a speck of white, and it looked very grumpy for a kitten. It was a Maine Coon, I guessed. "This one's Bruce," he said. "He's still pretty young, only got him last year after the Batman movie came out."

"It's a male?" I asked dubiously.

"Actually, it's a female," he admitted. "But we thought it was a boy for a long time. The fuckin' shock on our faces when all of a sudden all of the males kept jumpin' her, let me tell you." He didn't tell me, he just glanced up curiously. "How'd you know?"

"It's a tortoiseshell," I explained. "Torties are almost always female."

"I thought he was a calico," he mused, looking up and down the picture like he was suddenly seeing Bruce in a different light.

"Calicos have the same coloration and they're usually female too, but they have more white."

"Oh well; tortoiseshell, calico, it don't really matter." He put the picture of the male-but-actually-female calico-but-actually-tortoiseshell cat back in the wallet and folded it up.

Fatass had gotten over his slight and returned to the bed, rubbing against our backs and demanding attention, and after Kenny threw the wallet on the nightstand next to a stack of books, he reached around and pulled the cat onto his lap. We could hear his parents again; they had returned inside the house and they continued sniping at each other, but it wasn't quite so boisterous as when we'd first arrived.

"You're probably wondering why I've brought you here," Kenny said in a deep voice reminiscent of some vile Disney villain; he even stroked Fatass in such a way that suggested he was plotting deviously behind my back.

"As I may have said once or twice, yeah."

"What kind of books do you like?" he asked, this time in his normal voice.

I furrowed my brow and frowned a little at him. As I've already explained to you, novels and literature in general were not really my cup of tea. "I don't," I answered. "I'm not really a reader."

"Really?" He sounded kind of surprised. "Nothing? Not even like a special series?"

"Not really. Why?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "You seem like the type of guy to pick up a book now and then."

"Wrong again, I guess."

"Yeah, damn. I'm on a roll today, huh? You're smarter than the average bear so I just figured you were a bookish type."

"Funny, you seem to be the exact opposite, excluding the ones overflowing with tits."

He ignored my dig and continued, cheerfully. "Well, this is even better then, because you won't be disappointed that it's not something in like, a style you're used to or something."

Kenny held Fatass securely on his lap while he reached over and took the top book off of the pile on his nightstand. He handed it to me, a flimsy white paperback, and then returned to stroking his cat while I looked it over.

"'Lord of the Flies,'" I read. "I've seen it in the library. We were supposed to read it in tenth grade, but we wound up doing 'The Count of Monte Cristo' instead."

"I like that one," he said approvingly.

"It was boring."

"Well, you might like this. It's about these boys who get trapped on a desert island with no adults around, and while they try to survive, they slowly turn against each other and turn savage."

"I've seen references to it in movies and shit. There's like a pig head on a stake or something and these boys who hunt with spears."

"Jack and the choir boys," he clarified. "Except in the end, they hunt their friends."

I'd opened it and started flipping through some of the pages, and little things immediately popped out at me and annoyed me. Kenny must have seen the irate expression on my face, because he asked, "Something wrong?"

"Let me guess: the author is British."

"Yeah, so are the boys in the story. Problem?"

"I hate British writing. I hate the spelling and the different words and just the way everyone talks. It's annoying."

"How is it annoying?" he asked, with the vaguest suggestion of being annoyed himself.

"Like they spell things wrong-"

"It's not wrong, it's different."

"And how they say-" I rifled through some of the pages for examples. "Here, 'trousers' instead of just 'pants' and 'specs' instead of 'glasses.'" 

"Those are really, really small things to be put off about, dude."

"It's just distracting," I explained, and I closed the book and set it on my lap.

"I just thought you might be interested in the story," he explained with a shrug. "But if you won't even read it-" He reached for it, but stubbornly, I pulled it away.

"I'll read it, I'll just be resisting the urge to sigh and groan if I see 'color' spelled with a 'u' or something."

Kenny was about to reply, but before he could, there was a very gentle knock at his door, so soft I second-guessed whether or not I'd actually heard it at first.

"Yeah Ma?" Kenny called out.

The door opened and Fatass, though he hadn't seemed discontent with where he was until that very moment, immediately leaped off of Kenny's lap and scurried out the door and through his mother's feet. Though a split second's difference might have resulted in her tripping and falling flat on her face, Kenny's mother seemed indifferent to the cat and its antics.

"Evenin' boys, how's things goin'?" she asked. I wasn't sure if it was due to the shouting match, but her voice was very brittle, like if she spoke too loudly it would break apart in her throat. After seeing her and her husband going at it, I knew that wasn't the case, but still, it was weird to me for someone to speak so softly. Remember, my family is very loud.

"S'good Ma, I'm showin' Craig some of my books."

"Craig! That's yer name," she exclaimed, sounding pleased with herself. "I thought it was Craig or Chris or something like that, but that old jackass kept sayin' it was Clyde."

"Clyde's my friend," I explained. "People mix us up a lot for some reason. He's Mr. Donovan's son, the guy who runs the shoe store in the mall?"

"I wouldn't know darlin'; I ain't been shoe shoppin' in about eight years." She'd been hovering around the doorway up until this point, but now she started heading towards us, and we both realized she was carrying a paper plate, one of those flimsy off-brand ones that was already buckling under the weight of the insignificant offering on top of it: two Pop Tarts. "Well, I know it's 'round supper time and I don't have a lot to offer ya Craig, but we usually just split some Pop Tarts. Hope yer okay with strawberry."

Though I have been presenting myself as irredeemably stoic since the beginning of this narrative, that was not the case for me that night. The fact is that I was deeply embarrassed (and partially ashamed) by the fact that this woman had come bearing two Pop Tarts on a paper plate as dinner for her son and his company. Though it was starting to shift into dusk and I had been feeling a little hungry, it made my appetite shrivel into nothing.

"Thank you Ma'am, but you don't need to worry about me; I'm not all that hungry."

"You hush now, don't be embarrassed." Like Kenny, she was, apparently, uncannily good at cutting to the quick of something. "Yer a guest and I was raised to take care of guests." I was too awkward to take the paper plate from her, but Kenny reached over and grabbed it. If he was embarrassed or disappointed about the paltry supper, he didn't show it.

"Thanks Ma."

"'course hon. I'll leave you boys to it, jest let me know if you need somethin'."

Kenny was nibbling all around the outside of the Pop Tart as she left, but I didn't touch mine, and when she closed the door again, I said immediately, "You can have mine, I don't want it."

"I don't need your charity, Tucker." He said it in a hard voice, but his eyes were twinkling and he was smiling. I think it amused him to see me so caught off guard.

"Seriously, I'm not hungry."

"Seriously, I don't need your charity," he repeated. "You aren't doing me any favors. Just eat it."

"I can have dinner when I go home. You don't have that option."

"It's rude to decline food served to you," he admonished. He sounded like he was scolding me, but his eyes were still twinkling with that repressed amusement.

"I'm just going to leave it there and it's going to get stale and go to waste if you don't eat it."

"Naw," he said. "Fatass would get to it eventually."

Finally, I took up the Pop Tart and began picking off the unfrosted crusts, dropping them on the paper plate until only the frosted part was left. My trimming wasn't very even; several crusts had large chunks of frosting still attached, some had fruit filling on the edges too.

Kenny just observed me at first, continuing to nibble around his Pop Tart, and then he asked, "What're you doin'?"

"I don't like the crust," I explained, and then, not looking at him, I took a bite out of the Pop Tart. It wasn't even toasted, but I didn't address this. I continued to firmly direct my gaze at my feet, refusing to even glimpse at him.

From the corner of my eye I could see Kenny was giving me a suspicious look, shifting from me to the plate, but I'd taken a few bites before he actually said anything. "Either you really don't like the crust or you're just trying to be subtle about giving me some of your Pop Tart."

"I said, I don't like the crust," I repeated. "I say exactly what I mean. I told you that already."

He mulled it over and then he shrugged, ultimately deciding that he didn't care. Then he grabbed the plate and tilted his head back and let all of the trimmings just fall into his gaping gullet. "Thanks," he said, his appreciation muffled by chewing.

"For what?" I said blankly. He didn't respond; he had already moved passed it himself and returned to our interrupted conversation.

"Well, just in case you don't like 'Lord of the Flies,' you could try this one. Don't worry," he added as he rolled his eyes. "It's by an American."

"Joy," I said, not very joyously.

Again, he reached to his nightstand, this time digging through two or three books before coming up with another paperback, this one predominantly blue. "'Catch-22.' I'm sure you've heard of it."

"Yeah. It's a turn-of-phrase. A lose-lose situation."

"Basically. Early on, it explains the meaning of Catch-22. In the book, a pilot can be relieved from his mission if he's crazy. The way the book explains it, you'd have to be crazy to be willing to fly the missions they make you do, and theoretically you can request to be relieved if you suspect you're insane. But you only get your sanity evaluated if you suspect you aren't sane. But a crazy man don't doubt his sanity, so if you say you're crazy you're obviously just trying to get out of the mission, and you don't get relieved."

"In other words, no matter what you say or how you feel about it, you get forced to fly the plane."

"Pretty much. And that's just the first example; it's a recurring theme of how systems like this force people to submit to the situation, how even checks and balances are there not to benefit you but to just make the system look like it's running smoothly. It's sort of a satire on war on general. It gets really dark in the last few chapters too; I think you'd like it."

"I think you like it, and you're hoping I'll like it too." Nonetheless, I took the book and looked it over, reading the cover and the back in skimming chunks. "That's why you're showing me these books, right? You're curious. You wanna know how I feel about them so you know how I feel about other things."

"Other things?" Kenny repeated, in a tone that suggested he had never heard of something so complex as 'other things.' "Like what?"

"I don't know; you tell me. That's just the feeling I get, like this is a test, and you're just waiting to see if I'll pass it."

"Or I just think they're good stories," Kenny added. "Really dude, you give me too much credit."

"Are you really giving me both of them?" I asked.

"Yeah, sure. Read 'Lord of the Flies' first. Read the boys who think it's all just a game at first and they don't realize how serious it is, then go to the men who know it's all a game and they're the fuckin' punchline. You'll like Catch-22, I think. Lots of sarcasm, lots of loss of faith in humanity."

"You give me too much credit," I informed him. Nevertheless, I put the blue book on top of the white book beside me. "I still can't believe you're giving away books when you consider a Pop Tart dinner," I added dryly.

Kenny just released a wry chuckle and popped the last of his Pop Tart into his mouth. "You can't eat books, buddy," he told me. "That's their only downside."


	40. Part Four: The Boy Made of Fireworks

The Boy Made of Fireworks and Stardust

The holidays breezed by, like they always did. I didn't get to see much of Kenny over the next few weeks. His family usually celebrated the holidays by getting drunk, but my family, despite our dysfunctional status, liked a lot of holiday brouhaha. Tuckers are very widespread in the Rockies, all over the rural parts of the mountains, and my family tree was very large. If we weren't at some family function, we were hosting one.

I liked avoiding them as much as humanly possible. As mentioned, Tom Tucker is not exactly my real father, and thus I don't think his family really cared for me that much. For another, as I have also mentioned, my family is mostly a lot of white trash hicks, some of whom could put Kenny's folks to shame. I admit to not being a fan of their company.

With Kenny still texting me to pass the time and with the books he'd given me to read, it was bearable. As usual, I was often criticized for sitting off in a corner and reading instead of socializing it, but I ignored them.

'Lord of the Flies' was alright. I felt like I should have been more disturbed by it or maybe surprised or shocked by how quickly and completely the boys had turned savage on the island, but I wasn't. It took me a little longer to get through Catch-22, but I felt the same way; unsurprised and unmoved by the plights of the soldiers or by Yossarian's various dilemmas.

I still felt like Kenny had given the books to me with the intent of making some kind of point, but if there had been one, I didn't decipher it. I figured Kenny would eventually let me in on the secret, if there was one, and I didn't let the books bother me too much.

On New Years Eve, in most parts of the country, most people would be setting off fireworks to bring in the new year. In most parts of California, you were allowed to buy your own and fire 'em in the streets. In Colorado, fireworks were illegal to fire without sanction from whoever the fuck made the rules.

So when New Years Eve came around for us, we all had to congregate at a designated area outside of town to watch the county set off fireworks. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

Kenny and I weren't really going together at first. He had his friends and I had mine, and since we weren't dating and we weren't an item, it just wasn't a big deal for us to just sort of not go places together. We weren't clingy like that.

But he promised he would find me at some point throughout the night, if only to bother me. We hadn't seen each other more than a handful of times over the winter break, and he felt like he was overdue for bothering me a little. I told him I wouldn't mind being bothered.

I went with my friends, as usual. We piled into The Car and we laughed and told each other stories about our holiday adventures; Token had seen the RadioCity Music Hall Christmas Spectacular, (if that wasn't a fuckin' mouthful) and Clyde's dad had apparently made a killing in a poker match that, at least told by Clyde, was very dramatic, and Tweek had tale after tale of the stupidest customers we had ever heard of placing orders in the coffee shop. I'd missed them, it's true, but at the same time, after we'd pulled up and parked and begun to meander around in search of entertainment, I kind of wanted to get away from them and find Kenny.

Since everyone wants fireworks on New Years but you have to bring in practically the whole town to one location to do it, in Colorado, they make it into something of a party. Everyone had arrived at least two hours prior to midnight, if not earlier, and there were kids running around throwing poppers at each other and adults standing around drinking and smoking and a couple of little booths set up with cans of soda and barbeque and drawling country music crooning from somewhere nearby. It was almost like a fair. We picked at ribs that had gone stone cold and drank soda that was practically ice and tried to eat caramel apples without breaking our teeth on the frozen sugar. Despite all of this, it was a lot of fun, and even my detest for social gatherings didn't hinder my enjoyment.

After a while, we began to disperse a little. Clyde won a bear at ring toss and was determined to get it to Bebe before the night was out. Token's parents wanted him with them when the ball dropped, and he went to mind them, promising to find us when the fireworks actually started going off.

Tweek and I kept each other company for a while, peaceably at first, and predictably, he brought up Kenny.

"So how's things going?"

"With Kenny?" I specified. He nodded. "Fine, I guess."

There had been a big fuss over it, lots of friendly teasing and everything else, (and a lot of disbelieving eye rolling when I said we weren't dating, that we hadn't even kissed yet, and they would give each other looks and repeat, "yet," in that obnoxious, all-knowing tone) but Tweek was more subdued, more serious about it.

"I'm glad." A shiver caught up to him and interrupted him, but as soon as it was over, he continued. "Still not dating yet?"

"Nope."

"Do you want to?" he asked, pointedly.

"I don't know." I realized that I'd been looking for him, (or, at least, looking for orange) since we'd gotten there. I wondered if Tweek had noticed.

"What do you see in him?" he asked. "I thought you hated Kenny's g-gang."

"I don't know," I said again. "He's just...I don't know. Different, I guess."

"He's the only guy who's ever asked you out," Tweek pointed out sardonically. "So by sheer c-coincidence, you happen to like the only other g-gay guy in this town." Make no mistake; Tweek was just as prone to sarcasm as I was.

"You're being awfully negative tonight."

"I'm j-just not sure what happened, what changed. You never even looked at him before."

"I don't know," I repeated again. I didn't like hiding behind ignorance like that, but the truth was that I didn't know; a month and a half later, I still didn't know what it was about Kenny that intrigued me. Maybe it was just because he was the only thing that had ever expressed interest in me, maybe it was something else I hadn't yet realized. But my old standby came into effect. "Does it really matter why? I mean, we're here now."

"I guess." But that wasn't anywhere near the end of it. "So are you still gonna hang out with us?"

"Of course," I replied, and despite myself, I was a little surprised. "Even if I were dating Kenny, I wouldn't blow you guys off. You're my friends."

"He's over there." Tweek nodded his head towards him, casually, and I followed the direction he'd indicated. Sure as day, there he was. In the cold, he was totally submerged in his obnoxious orange parka, and he was with his brother while they minded their little sister. They were playing horseshoes, and Kenny didn't seem to be doing so hot.

"Oh." I watched his back for a few seconds, thinking, and then I turned away. "That's nice."

"You wanna ditch me and go hang out with him, don't you?"

"I swear, man. You need to get that paranoia looked at."

"I'm not being petty," Tweek assured me. "I'm just asking. If you wanna go do the whole New Year thing with him, that's cool. You can go. I won't stop you."

A more attentive friend might have noticed that he was not really cool with it and, in fact, I think he might have even been a little jealous. But an attentive friend I was not; as I have said, when people say something, I usually assume that they mean exactly what they said. "Actually," I admitted. "I kinda would like to just go say hi."

He looked a little disappointed, (he had no one to blame but himself for this, and I was not sympathetic) but he nodded and sighed and glanced at his phone. It was about a quarter to midnight. "I'll see you after the ball drops," he told me.

"Sure, I'll be there. Just text me."

He skulked off into the crowd, going who knew where. On one hand I was vaguely wondering what he would do; maybe just go hang out with Token and his family? I didn't know if his parents were even there. It was kind of sad to think he might be bringing in the New Year alone.

On the other hand, Kenny was waiting for me, though he didn't know it yet, so rather than continue wondering over something that didn't matter, I went to him.

As I usually did, I waited around in the background for him to notice me. As usual, he seemed oddly perceptive of his surroundings, and he caught my eye within a minute or two of me being there. At first, he gestured eagerly for me to join them, and I just cut a finger across my throat in response. Kenny I could tolerate, but I wasn't real keen on interacting with his siblings, especially since everyone else but us seemed to think we were dating.

So I waited, assuming that he would eventually come to me. I was self-centered like that; of course I'm sure Kenny would have preferred to be with his family, but somehow I knew that he would choose me over them, at least this time. I'd find out later that Kenny would not always choose me; sometimes, lots of times, other things were more important than me. Family, of course, being the big one; everyone could anticipate that. But there were other things. Rallies, statements, bombs, information. All more important than me.

As predicted, Kenny gave his brother and sister the slip, from what I heard I think he told them he was just going to take a leak and he'd catch them later. He suggested they get lined up to watch the ball drop; there was actually a television hooked up to a projector in the middle of the whole powwow down there, and while there'd be a few nice fireworks set off at just the right time, those who didn't mind crowds could actually enjoy Dick Clark's New Years Rockin' Eve even in the middle of nowhere, actually watch the ball drop in New York City. It was a neat little set up, I'll admit, but I wanted no part of it.

They set off as he parted from them, and he was headed straight for me. Despite the fact that I was pulling him away from his family, he still looked about as cheerful as could be, smiling all over. "Alright, so what's the big idea?"

"Huh?"

"You won't go near my friends because you don't like 'em, that I get, that's understandable, but my family's chill man. And Karen would totally love you, she'd think you're so tall and dark and handsome," he tittered, batting his eyelashes as he spoke.

"I just don't really want to get involved with people," I said with a weak shrug.

"Except with me, apparently." And that stupid grin widened.

I ignored him. "Do you want to watch the fireworks or not?"

"Wouldn't dream of missing it."

Even through the county, fireworks had to be set off in a highly controlled area, one that was far away enough from foliage and such so as not to burn the dry evergreens, (if you ever wanna see a fan-fucking-tastic fire, light up your old Christmas tree when you're done with it; those bitches burn like hell) but also with enough space to not only allot the folks watching the bonanza, but also a few cops and a firetruck while they were at it. Folks didn't play when it came to this shit; sure it was the dead of winter, sure everything was covered in snow, but one good spark could set off a massive forest fire, and something like that out here in the middle of nowhere could really fuck up a town.

The way things were set up, most of the festivities took place in an open field that sloped up to an old cattle ranch. Most of the booths and games were on the flat part, but the people were all nicely set up on the hillside, on blankets and in chairs and just waiting for those babies to blow in the sky. Kenny and I trailed up this slope, all the way, and a little further back even. We did it without consulting one another, without even asking, because we knew we had the same idea. We didn't have any nice chairs or anything to sit around on, so rather than stand and freeze to death, we were heading for the edge of the ranch, where there would be the remains of a wooden fence.

We weren't the only ones who'd thought to perch up on the fence, but it was certainly a lot more isolated than the rest of the hill. We couldn't see the ball drop, but that wouldn't matter; the whole damn town would be shouting along with the countdown momentarily, and then there'd be a nice little firework display, but that would just be the appetizer. The real show would begin shortly afterward.

"Four minutes," he said.

"Yeah."

"I love fireworks." It was such an inane thing to say, but he said it, and he still somehow sounded plucky about it. "They're the best, man. Especially on a night like this. Look how black the sky is tonight; it's gonna be like stars exploding."

"Mmhmm."

In the depth of December, the snow was packed thick and white around us, but for once, the wind was minding its own business, and that makes all the difference.

"Finish those books yet?" he asked. I guess maybe he was looking for conversation I could be involved in.

"Yeah, finished Catch-22 the other night."

"You like?"

"They were alright."

Kenny snorted. "Just alright?"

"Was I supposed to find some hidden meaning in them?" I asked frankly.

"Nah, I just wondered what you thought."

Three minutes.

"I'm not sure which one I liked more."

"So you did like them, though," Kenny clarified.

"Or I guess I could have said, 'which one I decided was less tedious to get through.'"

Kenny just rolled his eyes. "Don't lie asshole, you liked them."

"They were okay."

"I'm placing a bet on 'Catch-22.'"

"Nope. 'Lord of the Flies.'"

"No shit!" he exclaimed. He sounded legitimately surprised and, for some reason, impressed. "The British one about a bunch of snotty kids over the super snarky satire?"

"Yeah. I don't know; I almost sort of connected with the kids."

"Well, I'll be damned," he teased. "Craig Tucker can care about something."

"Don't make me push you off this fence," I warned. The planks were reasonably thick, enough for us to sit on anyway, but it was a precarious resting spot, and a good nudge would send either of us flying. "I'll do it."

"I know," he replied, good-humoredly.

Two minutes. The town below us was getting restless; we could hear their whoops and hollers from all the way up on the hill.

Kenny's thickly gloved hand was on mine. I didn't know exactly when he'd put it there; my hands were frozen and numb, and I could hardly feel them as it was. But I didn't mind it being there. I kinda wished I could hold onto his hand for real. I wished I could hold his frozen fingers and warm them up for him and then just hold onto him for the rest of the night. I didn't realize until a lot later how badly I'd wanted that.

"It goes without saying," Kenny began, and I thought he was going to bring up our hands, and I looked away. But he didn't. "Ralph's my favorite character. What about you?"

"I don't know." I didn't want to talk about those stupid books anymore; they weren't real to me right then, not like how Kenny was real to me, sitting next to me so solidly and so warm. I wanted to lean against him, to feel like he was really there, but I didn't.

"It's easy to sympathize with Jack though," he added. "At first, I really liked Jack. Yeah, he was kind of a dick, but he was just trying to do what he thought was right, you know? He was so obsessed with the idea that he had all these responsibilities to uphold."

Again, I released a noncommittal, "Mmhmm."

Kenny took the hint. "Well, we can talk about it later. It's almost time."

"Yeah."

I waited for him to say something, to do something, but he was focused on the crowd huddling around the projector. We still couldn't see it, but we could see them practically radiating with energy; the anticipation, the waiting, the knowing it's going to come eventually, knowing what's going to happen and knowing it's inevitable.

It wasn't even a question. We hadn't said a word about it. But I think we both already knew what was going to happen as midnight became imminent.

The new year counted down, slowly. We listened as everyone else chanted the seconds down rhythmically, all the way from fifty-nine and down to ten, then nine, eight, seven, and everyone grew louder, everyone was chanting it, six, five, four, and it was booming, we could hear it even as far away from the crowd as we were, three, two, and then they all shouted the final number, a sonorous, resounding ONE, and as the field erupted in cheers and the sky exploded with fireworks, we both leaned in and we kissed.

The shouting and hollering and sparkling fireworks before us didn't even matter. We just kissed, long and sweet, and when we broke apart we breathed and immediately pressed our lips together again. His tongue flitted over my lips and I licked his in return, but getting tongue wasn't our goal that night; even he seemed to know that.

I've heard about a lot of really sappy first kisses, so I like to think we weren't being too bad, comparatively. I knew this was probably far from Kenny's first kiss, but he knew it was mine, and he didn't ruin it. 

We were a little less than a minute into the new year when we decided we were done, and all pride forgotten, we leaned on each other, resting our heads together, our hands wrapped together. I could hear and see his breath pouring like mist from his mouth. In the scarce light I could just see his nose red as Rudolph's compared to the rest of his face. I could see the content little smile on his face, and for the first time I didn't feel like smacking it off of him. I was smiling contentedly too.

The rest of the party was still moving along at top speed in front of us, but we managed to keep separate and solitary for a few long, quiet minutes until our respective groups texted us, asking where we were. The real fireworks would be starting in minutes and wherever we were, we needed to get our asses back to them, pronto. They had no idea.

In the end, we decided to go tend to them. May as well, we thought. We'd come here with them; why abandon them now? It wasn't like we were together or something.

"See you," I told him. I didn't want to make it all sappy and sentimental. We'd kissed; big deal. I figured it was wise to just leave it like that.

Kenny always had other ideas. He pulled me back and pecked me once, just once, but firmly, on the lips. Then he grinned devilishly and pushed me away again. "Get out of my face, Tucker."

That one little casual kiss flustered me like the other two had not, and my friends all took turns asking why I was so red in the face when I returned to them.

2007 would be a very important year for me, a very busy year, and it all started with Kenny. Like some sort of colossal big bang, or else with a sparking burst of color like a firework, Kenny very abruptly burst into my life, and while I admit that it's cliché to say, it's this instigating explosion of his that really made me start living. As you've seen, my life was really worth nothing before he showed up. I was floating. I was bored. I was just a stupid, sullen, self-centered teenager that probably never would have amounted to anything because all I ever cared about was myself, and frankly I didn't even care all that much about that.

Even in this next part of the story, I haven't changed much yet; nothing would really change too much until the summer apocalypse and Clyde's blindsiding decision in December, a long, hard year away.

At this point it feels like all of my problems have been wrapped up and I don't have a care in the world. At this point it seems like with this kiss, everything has been resolved and there's nothing more to the story worth looking into.

However, if you remain satisfied with the appearance of a pleasant surface illusion like that, you're going to find yourself very terribly wrong and very terribly mislead. That's exactly how it was with Kenny. This was only his outer shell. This was only the first glimpse I saw of him. This was all I thought there was to his story. I had to dig a lot deeper to really find out what was inside Kenny; having one first kiss (even if it was spectacular) wasn't going to be enough.

Maybe Kenny did ruin everything in the end, and maybe the road I had begun to tread would only lead me to suffering and painful revelations, ending that final night in the hospital with him angelically watching over me before he delivered that final kiss that, like its predecessors, would not change anything. That kiss wouldn't heal the scars. That kiss wouldn't bring back the dead. That kiss meant just as little as anything else in the world, no matter how much it meant to me.

But that would all come later. That night, Kenny wasn't made of agony and angels; he was made of fireworks and stardust.


	41. Part Five: The Greatest Country

**Part Five**

The Greatest Country in the World

_Our country is the best country in the world. We are swimming in prosperity and our President is the best president in the world. We have larger apples and better cotton and faster and more beautiful machines. This makes us the greatest country in the world._  
><em>Unemployment is a myth.<em>  
><em>Dissatisfaction is a fable.<em>  
><em>...America is beautiful. It is the gem of the ocean and it is too bad. It is bad because people believe it all. Because they become indifferent. Because they marry and reproduce and vote and they know nothing.<em>

John Cheever


	42. Part Five: 2007

2007

2007 was a very busy year. A lot was happening in the world.

On January 10th, George W. Bush introduced a new military movement called "The New Way Forward." It basically consisted of America sending another 20,000 troops directly into Iraq, right into Baghdad, and it extended the stay of the service members who were already stuck there. More on that later.

On January 17th, the Doomsday Clock is set to five minutes to midnight in response to Iranian and North Korean nuclear testing. They warned us that society was on the "brink of a second nuclear age," but as it turned out, both of those guys were a lot of bluster and not a lot of bombs.

On March 9th, we find out that the FBI was abusing the Patriot Act to obtain personal information about US citizens. Not like that was a surprise or anything. We impeached Nixon for the Watergate scandal, but when it comes to an entire government organization spying on the entire country for no good reason, we all just sort of shrugged and moved on.

On April 16th, the Virginia Tech massacre occurs, which is later dubbed the deadliest mass shooting in American history. The death toll stood at 32, although I suppose it's 33 given that the guy who did it then killed himself.

On May 1st, a major riot breaks out in Los Angeles, a classic "May Day" riot in response to unfair treatment towards immigrants. Again, more on that later.

On June 1st, a destroyer fired off a few cruise missiles in Somalia (there you go, Clyde, there's your pirate battle for you) at what were declared to be sympathizers and/or affiliates of Al Qaeda. The number reported dead varied between two people and eight people, and I'm not sure if it was ever confirmed that they were even connected to Al Qaeda.

On August 30th, right after the whole Iran/North Korean scare, six cruise missiles were loaded on a B-52H, each mistakenly equipped with a nuclear warhead. They flew from Minot Air Force Base to Barksdale Air Force Base and no one realized the error for thirty-six hours. Six nuclear war heads just flying in the air for a day and a half. Great job Air Force.

December began what became known as the "Great Recession," the lowest the United States economy had ever gotten since the Great Depression in the 1930's. Truth be told it was a worldwide recession, but considering America had been at war for six years and it was still holding on with tooth and nail to fight that war, it hit us especially hard.

And this was just in America; this was just the stuff that, in the pinnacle of our egocentricity, we considered to be the most important events of the year. There was more than that; there was so much more.

Ten days before my birthday, on January 15th, Barzan Ibrahim al-Tikriti, an Iraqi chief of intelligence, and Awad Hamed al-Bander, a former judge, were executed by hanging in Iraq. Not long after, February 3rd, a market bombing in Iraq kills a hundred and thirty-five people and injures over three hundred more.

March 1st brought us the Denmark riots in response to the planned demolition of the Ungdomshuset, a building in which ravegoers, squatters, political parties, and other activist groups would frequently meet in secret. There were more than 2,000 protestors and 273 arrests, and days later the building was torn down anyway.

On June 29th, two car bombs were discovered in London, luckily before they went off, and the day after, a car was driven into Glasgow International Airport in Scotland. A British friend of mine informs me that the driver, who crashed the vehicle intentionally, escaped from the burning vehicle, only to be met by a man who, rather than do anything to help the man who was burning to death, reportedly kicked the guy so hard in the nuts he tore a tendon in his foot.

I mean, do you blame 'em? We all have our priorities.

On September 11th, Russia tested the largest conventional weapon ever, the "Father of All Bombs." For one, great timing Russia. For another, they claimed that it was a huge success and a great improvement over America's "Mother of All Bombs," and right away we began using expert sources to debunk them. I think we were more upset that they made a bigger bomb than us than about the existence of a potentially more destructive weapon.

On November 15th, a cyclone devastated Bangladesh, killing 5,000 people and destroying Sundarbans, the world's largest mangrove forest. Again, I think everyone was more upset about the trees dying than the people. Priorities, man.

On December 11th, two separate car bombs are detonated in Algiers, one at the Constitutional Court building and another at the United Nations office. Roughly forty-five are reported dead altogether, and Al Qaeda purportedly took credit for the attacks.

And it wasn't all bad. Not all of it. There was good stuff too; the stuff the news never really dwelt on, the stuff that was too nice and too happy for the media, steeped in their misery and doom, to enjoy.

As you already know, on January 9th, Steve Jobs announced the first generation iPhone. This generally overshadowed the fact that, five days prior, Nancy Pelosi became the first female Speaker of the House in US history. I'll admit I have a good dose of misogyny in me myself, (as if you haven't noticed by now) but I sorta think this accomplishment was a little more crucial than a phone.

A month later, in February, the Colts beat the Bears in the Super Bowl. Peyton Manning would later go on to lead the Denver Broncos to the Super Bowl in 2014, but they would lose miserably to the Seattle Seahawks. Don't remind me.

On April 4th, 15 British Royal Navy personnel that had been held in Iran were released by the Iranian president. Bully for them; we were still missing about 1,300 POWs. But I guess every bit counts.

On May 17th, a train crosses the Demilitarized Zone between North and South Korea for the first time since the line was set down in 1953. We all kind of hoped it might lead to those two getting along a little better, but alas, it didn't.

On July 21st, the seventh and final Harry Potter book is released. Whether this is good or bad I can't actually say; I admit I never read the series. Most people seemed excited about it though.

On October 6th, Jason Lewis completed the first human-powered journey around the world, a journey titled "Expedition 360." It lasted 13 years and when completed, Lewis completed 46,505 miles by either walking, biking, rowing, skating, or swimming entirely around the world, ending at the Greenwich Meridian Line.

On October 17th, President Bush and the United States Congress present the Dalai Lama the Congressional Gold Medal, much to China's chagrin. Bush was evidently unmoved by China's general discontent with the whole thing, and basically said that it looked good for America to be supporting religious freedom.

On December 17th, the Lakotah people assert independence from the US. Again, this was largely overlooked, which is sad, because if anyone had any right to claim to belong in this country, it was these guys, but by then we were way too worried about controlling the new immigrants than we were about acknowledging Native Americans.

And on December 20th, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II became the oldest ever monarch of the United Kingdom.

Like I said: we all have our priorities.

2007 was going to be a very busy year, and I was about to get very busy myself. At the time 2007 began, the only thing that seemed important was that I had just gotten my first kiss, and I would be seventeen in late January. That was usually all that was important to a teenager; themselves. Teenagers are almost more narcissistic than the US. I think that's why we hated the country a lot at the time; we all hated ourselves too.

So while all of this was going on in the world, all of these things that were really much more relevant than I was in the grand scheme of things, allow me to engage you instead with the trivialities of my life. In the beginning of 2007, let's contemplate birds of a feather, the fire in the El Camino, two stupid virgins, fuck buddies, the freedom of proles, surging forward, the final solution, and a smile made of pure sunlight.

So far, things are still going well for me. Things are slowly changing, don't get me wrong, but it's good change. It's not mortifying, not like it would be later. It's still a pleasant ride right now, so enjoy the view while it lasts. It won't.


	43. Part Five: Birds of a Feather

Birds of a Feather

The New Year passed without much trouble. School returned to its normal monotony and my life continued to be nice and boring, with the exception of having what I still hesitated then to call a "boyfriend."

Kenny continued to intrigue me. I have never known someone to have such a knack for mischief, a capacity for caring, a keen ear for listening, a surprising amount of depth, and a complete inability to give a shit all at once. I simultaneously loathed everything about him and envied every aspect of him. When I was with him, his presence irked me. When I was away from him, I craved his company. I couldn't make up my mind; inserting him into my life had caused a perpetual paradox.

I continued to wonder if I legitimately liked Kenny, or if I really only felt something for him because he was interested in me. But thinking things like that often wound up leading me frustratingly close to words I didn't want to touch with a 39 ½ foot pole, nauseating words like "commitment" and "love," and so I just sort of let them drift away before I really thought too seriously about them. I was seventeen and we'd been not-dating for barely over a month; you can imagine why I was reluctant to look too deeply into anything regarding Kenny.

Not that that was really a choice. Kenny was one of those guys who refused to be content with what was on the surface; he always wanted to know more, he always wanted to go deeper.

I'm happy to tell you that I don't have any sort of really heart wrenching or dramatic tales to tell of persecution from this time. Sure, there were a couple of incidents, but nothing I really feel is relevant to describe in great detail. I'm no martyr; at least give me that much credit.

Nowadays, someone being gay is just sort of something you accept without thinking about it. The younger folks I run into now (ha, as if you didn't already think I was old!) think it's ridiculous that our country outlawed gay marriage in some states as late as they did. I tell 'em that when I was in high school, Massachusetts was the only state in the whole US that allowed gay marriage, and they look at me like I must be plumb crazy, or else from some ancient civilization. ONE state out of FIFTY! And it really wasn't so long ago, if you think about it. Not really.

But back then, in the late 2000's, it was a pretty tense thing to be walking around a queer in a little back woods town like that. I know it sounds weird, but being gay was a lot more of a social stigma back then. You just didn't do things like walk down the street holding your partner's hand or prop up in a movie theater with your arm around your guy, not any more than you got up on stage and sung a duet with 'em. It was just not what you did. Maybe you'd see it in the big cities that were seeing more progression than we were, but recall, we still lived in a town that thought Bush was doing a crackerjack job.

Despite all of this, despite how quickly it disseminated throughout our peers that we seemed to be dating, I wasn't really bothered. I think it was just our combination; everyone liked him, everyone was a little afraid of me. Generally, I think that combo shut folks up.

There were a few tense situations; there always were. A few jeers were thrown my way; I just jeered right back. I got called "fag" a little more than I used to, (which only bothered me so much; you'll notice I use the word to refer to myself) and I was jumped once. It was three on one, but I wound up giving them a run for their money, more so than they had given me. I was naturally a passive person, nonviolent even, but as I've mentioned, it's not wise to push me.

I remember, that day I got jumped was shortly after my seventeenth birthday. I had a nice little gash on my head, and my dad was cleaning me up with some cotton balls soaked in hydrogen peroxide.

"Why's yer stupid ass gotta keep getting into fights anyhow?" he berated me. I just sat there and took it, like I always did. "Yer seventeen, yer damn near 'bout a man, and you keep throwin' yer fists at everyone who gives you a funny look. That shit don't fly in the real world, boy."

"Sorry," I said. He said I was nearly a man and yet he still called me "boy." You can't argue with people like that.

He just wet more of the cotton and smeared the blood around my head. I could only see him out of one eye; I had an icepack over the other. He sounded mad, or at least he sounded like he was trying to sound mad, but from what I saw of him, he didn't look it.

"Look, I know that's not how it happened," he amended. My dad's actually a pretty reasonable guy, for the record. "I know you ain't a bad kid and I know you don't give no one nothing they weren't already askin' for."

"Thanks," I said, and I winced as he dabbed at my cut some more.

"What I gotta know is why you keep givin' em what they're askin' for. Yeah those kids are probably little chickenshits and you know you can whip 'em good, that's great Craig, real glad and all, but why can't you just walk away sometimes? You don't gotta rise to their jests every damn time."

I decided to tell him. I didn't really want to, I didn't want to make myself out to be the victim, but I decided to tell him. "I wasn't just in some fight. I got jumped."

My dad scoffed. "Jumped by who? Ain't no one stupid enough in this town to just jump a guy in broad daylight, 'n you don't look like you have shit to take anyway."

"They were guys from school. They don't care much for me bein' a fag. Guess they thought they could straighten me out."

My dad was just quiet for a moment before he just finally exhaled an understanding, "Oh." His hand had paused for a few seconds, and then it continued rubbing down the side of my head. "Well, I hope you showed 'em what for," he said.

Truth be told, my dad was not exactly thrilled about my sexual preference himself. My mom I don't think was really either. But they weren't like those parents who disowned their kids for joining the other team; we were still family, and they still cared about me, and I don't think, growing up, I ever really appreciated that enough. Not that I got a lot of support from them or anything, but there was begrudging acceptance, and that was more than most guys got.

"I think I did," I told him. "I don't think those assholes are gonna bother us no more." Too late, I realized I'd said 'us.' He caught on right away.

"Is it 'cause you been runnin' with that McCormick kid? The blond one?"

God, my dad was perceptive. I'd been making a point of not telling him about my risque love life. "Kenny," I corrected. If he was gonna know, he may as well know the whole thing. "Yeah, the blond one. He hangs out with Stan Marsh and all them."

"Didn't know the kid swung that way," he commented, offhand. "Hope his folks aren't in the know about that, they ain't real keen on that sorta stuff."

I think that was the first time it ever occurred to me that Kenny might be getting the same sort of shit I was. I was annoyed by the rumors because I didn't like my private life being revealed for all to see, but I just sort of figured Kenny wasn't really bothered by it because Kenny never really seemed bothered by anything. He always just let everything bounce off of him with a smirk and a shrug, like he was impervious to everyone around him. I don't know why it had taken me so long to realize that I probably wasn't the only one getting jumped anymore.

"Kenny'll be fine," I said. I think I was telling more myself than him. "Besides, if anyone fucks him up, I'll fuck them up."

"You watch it," my dad warned me, gesturing right in my face with a wilting, bloody cotton ball. "You don't fuck nobody up if you don't got to."

"But..." I was going to say something along the lines of, "But he's my boyfriend." I'm pretty sure I was. But he didn't give me a chance.

"No buts. I ain't got nothing against you two birds of a feather flockin' together, and that's the truth. But you better stay out of trouble from now on, you hear?"

I didn't tell him that I hadn't been looking for trouble. I didn't remind him that I was the one who'd been jumped, not the other way around. I just agreed, because that's what I did. "Yessir."

It was widely assumed in South Park that Kenny was not a legitimate McCormick child. He didn't particularly look like his dad or his mom and his blond hair and blue eyes stuck out like a sore thumb in his family. It was totally possible, he insisted, and it was. I mean, at least there's the genetic potential for two brown haired brown eyed parents to give birth to a blond haired blue eyed child. It's a low percentage, but it's there. You look at my fair haired light eyed parents compared to me and my dark haired dark eyed self and you really wonder why people never brought it up more.

Still, while my case was more obvious, Kenny's was more widely assumed, and I assumed this is what my father meant when he said "birds of a feather." Two illegitimate boys, two shithead punks who knew everything. He may have meant something else, something less incriminating, but did it matter what he meant? It's what he'd said.


	44. Part Five: Fire in the El Camino

The Fire in the El Camino

Nothing else really changed much throughout January. As I said, I turned seventeen and my folks started getting on my ass about college, even though my grades were fine and I wasn't even done with junior year yet.

I obtained my iPhone. I originally asked for it because my grades for the first school quarter had been pretty good, (3.3; not too shabby considering I skipped most of my classes periodically) but when that wasn't enough, I kicked it up a notch. After quite a lot of balking and pleading and shameless begging, in the end they caved. I told you I can be manipulating when I really want something.

I gave Kenny my old phone, which he appreciated, even if it wasn't really great. We were texting even more now, and calling each other a lot more too. I tried to keep my promise and spend as much time with my friends as I did with Kenny, but I'm sure they realized that even when I was with them, my eyes were always on my phone. Even they'd noticed that I was smiling at it all the time. They teased me about it; Tweek didn't comment.

I mooched on Tweek's iTunes a lot. Now that I was spending a lot of time away from him, I'd started missing some of the music we listened to all the time, and I didn't have the patience (or the money) to buy everything he had at his disposal. Kenny had me add quite a lot of rock and a little bit of country into it, and it became a pretty damn strange mix, let me tell you.

Just like that, January was over and done with. I already told you to expect time to pass arbitrarily.

February was uneventful for the most part. I lost the bet with Token about Clyde and Bebe breaking up by Valentines Day (which basically meant the day before Valentines Day, Token eventually convinced me) and there went six bucks. We tried very hard to keep this knowledge from Bebe. Hint: we were not successful.

Now, when it came to me and Kenny, Valentines was supposed to pass us by like any other day. Considering our unofficial status continued to be somewhere in the realm of "we are dating" and "you annoy the piss out of me," we had every intention of avoiding Valentines Day at first. We'd already discussed it and agreed that, like Christmas, doing the whole gift exchange and gushy romantic bullshit was just something we weren't interested in.

However, on the day itself, Kenny rang me up early in the evening.

"You busy?" he asked, in the sort of voice that suggested if I were busy, I'd better get unbusy.

"Not really." I was laying on my bed and halfheartedly doing homework. I had about nineteen more pages of psychology to read, but it was slow going. I knew the theories in the broadest sense of the word, but the inner workings of people were not very interesting to me.

"Good. Get your ass outside, I'm already waiting."

"Why should I?" I asked in a belligerent tone. I had already put down and closed my book, and I was scooting to the edge of my mattress.

"Because I have two awesome things to show you. Well, one's awesome, the other's just something I wanna show you."

"We agreed not to exchange gifts," I reminded him.

"Jeeze, egocentric much? I said I had stuff to SHOW you, not GIVE you. Hurry up." He hung up, and I put my phone in my pocket and just smiled while I pulled my shoes on.

After I slipped downstairs and left my house, I saw immediately what the first thing was. Kenny was leaning against an El Camino, looking like he thought he was one slick cat, arms crossed and a smug little grin on his face with his chin up in the air.

"Whaddya think?" he asked as I got closer.

"Whose car did you steal now?" I asked blankly as I came up beside him. Despite this, I was admiring it; it was still a little run down, but it was certainly a looker. El Caminos weren't all that common in our neck of the woods.

I was close enough for Kenny to slap the back of my head, and he didn't hesitate to do so. "Shut yer mouth, I didn't steal it. The folks recovered it and let me have it. We've been fixing it up for weeks; we already sold the other one to help pay for it."

"It's nice," I complimented, but it was kind of a stretch to say so. It was red, but the sort of red that looked like it had seen better days, sun bleached and weathered all to hell. The tires were new enough, but they'd seen some wear, and the rims were still a little rusty. Nonetheless, it was a work in progress, and I was sure Kenny wouldn't stop until it looked as good as it did back in its day.

"'70 El Camino," he said fondly as he looked over the car. "I will truly eternally mourn the fact that this car was not created one year, just one year sooner than that."

I just rolled my eyes at him. "Are we going for a drive?"

"Fuckin' course," he answered promptly, and like he was some fresh, quirky star in a over-the-top action movie, he jumped up and slid across the hood, and then quickly fell into the driver's seat. He buckled his seat belt in a swift, smooth motion, and then he just looked up at me through the window with this suave, irresistible grin that, despite myself, made me grin too. Kenny had a bad habit of making me smile a lot these days.

While I didn't have any cool moves to show off, I got into the passenger seat and buckled my seat belt too, and away we went. The engine sounded pretty smooth and it didn't clang around or rattle or anything, so it at least appeared to be safe. The inside was pretty shabby; the seats needed to be done over and it smelled musty inside, but it wasn't completely hopeless. I remember, I actually kind of looked forward to seeing Kenny slowly give the car new life, step by step. I guess at the time, I'd already started thinking that Kenny and I were going to be long-term somethings, even then.

"So why'd your folks opt to keep the car?" I asked. "Somethin' like this, it ought to sell for a pretty penny, if just to some collector."

"It might, but only if it were restored well enough. As is, I may as well drive it to the ground; it'd still sell for about the same price a broken down hunk o' shit as it is right now. 'n I like it," he added. It was clear that he did; he was still giddy about it, and while Kenny was often excitable about a lot of things I thought were not really cause for celebration, he seemed extra giddy today. He was like a little kid driving around the best toy truck he'd gotten for Christmas that year. "Lucky Kev let me have it, he said he had his eye on it too."

"Why didn't he want it then?" I asked.

"Dunno," Kenny said, and he shrugged. "Maybe it's an early birthday present. He said he didn't think he'd be needing it."

"That sounds kinda ominous."

"Shoot, fucker done got one DUI already and damn near lost his license; wouldn't be surprised if he did it again the next time he gets his greasy paws on a car. But, he did teach me a sweet little tune."

"Like what?"

"He said it's like an old Army cadence or something," he explained. "It's stupid simple, (thus why he likes it, I'll bet) but it is catchy." And he started singing:

El Camino! El el Camino!

El Camino! El el Camino!

The front is like a car  
>The back is like a truck!<p>

The front is where you drive

The back is where you WOO!

On the "woo," he leaned his head back and fucking belted that shit out of his diaphragm, and he made a noise that was something like a cross between a police siren and a howling dog. We were driving down the main street still, and pedestrians actually stopped walking and looked up at us as we passed, and I just kept my head down.

"Well, that's one way to avoid using the word 'fuck,'" I said dryly.

He snickered. "We could always test it out sometime, if you like."

"I'm all set, thanks."

Nevertheless, when he finished driving all over South Park, we wound up in front of Stark's Pond again. And this time, after he put the car in park, I fully expected how he unbuckled himself and then freely leaned over in the seat and planted his lips right on mine. I didn't fight him this time, not because I was surprised, but because I liked it. Kenny was still pretty persistent about reminding me that he was ready for more, and I was equally persistent about denying him, but I'd reached the point where if nothing else, I enjoyed making out with him for a while.

The sun was nearly spent and the overhead light was busted, so the dusk had engulfed us thoroughly by the time he started getting into it. He unbuckled my seat belt and crawled right on top of me while I shifted at an angle on the seat, and he kissed me ravenously and held my head with one hand while he held himself up on the door. I was bracing myself against the seat with one hand and holding onto his back with the other. His jacket (a thinner one, not the obnoxious parka he was so well renown for) had hiked up his back a bit when he'd shifted positions, and, in a move that was pretty bold for me all things considering, I slipped my hand under his jacket and under his shirt, rubbing his back. He shivered; my hands were cold, I think, but Christ, he was so fucking warm.

Kenny unpeeled his lips away from mine and pulled away just barely far enough to mutter, "That offer's still on the table for the back if you're feeling frisky."

"Or we can just be frisky up here," I replied.

I don't think he was expecting that; I think he was expecting me to tell him to shut up or that he was a pervert or that I didn't want sex with him anyway. That was usually my response, as reliable as the shallow pool of phrases from a voice box in a pull-string doll.

As it was, when I said that, his eyes just lit up, and then he immediately assaulted my lips again, and I just responded.

He kept making these hot little noises into my mouth, suppressed groans I think, but other than breathing rapidly through my nose, I managed to remain mostly silent. I pulled his shirt higher and revealed more of his back, and I leaned into the door for support while I ran my hands all along his back, teasing him with my fingertips and sometimes running a nail along his skin until I felt him shudder.

Then he started unzipping my jacket, and he didn't even pull it off or anything; he just bunched it up and pushed it higher, out of the way until he revealed my stomach. His hands were so warm on my skin as he leaned into me, and I had to shift around and reposition, throwing one leg up on the seat underneath us just to support him. He took that as an invitation to lower himself on top of me completely, and at that awkward angle, he shoved his hand up clear up my shirt and firmly, roughly thumbed the first nipple he found while he started to grind. 

Fuck, either one of those would have probably been too much for me, but the combination stunned me at first, and although he was being rough and way too greedy for a make out, he didn't stop. He'd lowered his head into the crook of my neck, and out came the teeth, gnawing gently on my skin and then sucking it relentlessly, and this was what broke the spell for me. Him suckling my neck, still thumbing my nipple which was very quickly getting stiff and sensitive while he greedily ground his crotch into the part of me that was more sensitive still, and involuntarily, I let out a cry that was very unlike me, and a second later, I told him to stop.

To his credit, he always stopped when I asked. His hand limply dropped out of my shirt and he leaned into me, but he stopped grinding on me, and his lips broke away from my throat with a gasp. He just rest his head on my shoulder, breathing deeply, and I could feel the sweat on the side of his head on my neck. The heat was on in the car, and it worked a lot better than the Focus, maybe a little too good. The windows had started to fog up a little; I don't think we'd really noticed how hot and heavy we were getting.

"Oh, Jesus fuck dude, why do you gotta do that to me?" he groaned. "I'm gonna be blue all fucking night now."

I didn't normally apologize for telling him to stop. I didn't feel like it was my responsibility to apologize. It wasn't my fault that he was a disgusting pervert and his dick was almost always as hard as his head.

But I did tonight, only because I sympathized. His leg had fallen directly on top of my groin at this point, and I was sure he could feel something akin to a block of wood wedged up against it. "Sorry. It's just...you know. Maybe that was too frisky for me."

"Eh, it's cool." He started crawling backwards off of me, kind of awkwardly, (one loses a little dexterity in these situations) and then he eventually just plopped back into the drivers seat, and his head fell back and he closed his eyes, still breathing a little hard. He let me slide back into my seat without comment, but when I tried to readjust my jeans to better deal with my own situation, he commented, hopefully, "We could just jerk off, you know."

"Do I even need to say anything?"

"I mean like, I'll just do my thing, you do yours-"

"No."

Kenny just snapped his fingers again, but he didn't even say anything; his eyes remained closed. I think he was mentally trying to persuade his hard-on to become a hard-off if he was going to have to deal with it for a while.

Like it was just a passing thought, like I wasn't trying to change the subject intentionally, I said, "You know, if I recall correctly, you said you had two things to show me."

"Oh, yeah." He was shifting around discreetly, I think trying to readjust. "Glovebox," he said, without looking at me.

I popped it, and I was not entirely surprised to see another book inside. Another flimsy paperback, this one with a red cover, I recognized it as yet another one of the books I'd managed to skip in high school. Fahrenheit 451.

"You said you weren't giving me anything," I said sourly when I caught sight of it.

"Books aren't gifts. They're just a lot of words."

Still, I removed it from the glovebox and looked it over. It was too dark for me to read anything but the title, but at least it was pretty short. I could probably get through it in a day, maybe two if I wasn't really focused on it.

"So what's this one?" I asked.

"Well, the first one was an utter lack of society, and the second one made a mockery of society. This one's more cynical, a dystopian society. In the book, books are illegal."

"How can books be illegal?" I asked. "All books?"

"They just are." Kenny shrugged. "If anyone finds a book in the story, these guys have to burn it, and that's the main character's job. He's a fire fighter and he's supposed to burn books. That's the reason for the title; I guess paper burns at 451 degrees Fahrenheit or something."

"Is this another test?"

"The other two weren't tests."

"They're something," I said stubbornly. "You're giving me these books for a reason. You want me to make some kind of connection."

"You want your subliminal connection?" he asked, seriously, and I thought he was finally going to come clean, finally going to let me in on what I felt like was some big secret he'd been hiding. But instead, he said, "This book is red."

I just blankly stared at him in the darkness. "Huh?"

"The other two were blue and white. Now you've got red, white, and blue. It's all coming to light now, this complex conspiracy plot of mine." And he chortled to himself.

"Did you actually plan that?"

"No, it was an accident. But accidents happen for a reason sometimes, right?"

"No," I disagreed. "That would imply that things are meant to happen a certain way, it would imply that things are predetermined."

"Let me guess," Kenny began in a tone just dripping with weary sarcasm. "You don't believe in destiny, either."

"The shock on my face," I said in the most monotonous voice I could possibly produce.

"Do you believe in anything?" he asked. "Anything? You don't believe in love, destiny, God-"

"I never said I don't believe in God."

"Do you believe in God?"

"No."

He exclaimed, "Then why the fucking fuck did you say that?"

"Because you never asked."

Kenny was quietly frustrated to himself; I could see him steaming sullenly in his seat, trying not to let me in on it. Instead, I let him in on a secret of mine.

"You know how you're always telling me I'm cute when I'm embarrassed?" I took a leaf out of Kenny's book and threw him a smooth grin. "Well, you're cute when you're all flustered and worked up. You pout when you're upset that I'm not taking you seriously."

At that very moment he was pouting, his bottom lip just slightly jutting out and that little angry wrinkle was waving at me from between his furrowed eyebrows. It remained for a second or two after I spoke, and then it softened.

"I've created a monstah," he said in a close enough Boris Karloff imitation.

"You ain't created shit." As he chuckled, I returned the book to the glovebox and then shut it. "I'm just putting it there for now," I said, before he could question it. "I'll take it and read it, just like the other two."

"Maybe then you'll finally be able to decrypt the secret message of my conspiracy theory," Kenny teased. "Hey, if you got a twenty, I can show you the Twin Towers burning on it."

"Yeah, right. Only seen that trick like a million times. Yawn."

We wound up driving around town for a bit after that, just because, just to waste time. I didn't mind. I liked just sitting there with him, just knowing he was there.

This time, when he dropped me off, he parked the El Camino and walked me to my door.

"You don't have to do things like this," I told him. "I'm not some precious little flower that needs your protection. Maybe you've had however many girlfriends that like it, but I'm a guy. I can handle walking twenty feet from my driveway."

"It's polite," he said, shrugging. "I'd expect you to see me to my door if you were the one dropping me off."

"Well, you'd be sorely disappointed then, wouldn't you?"

"I always am with you." He said it in his usual joking manner, but it actually kind of stung a little, the way he said it. Maybe that's why when we actually got up to my house, instead of letting myself in, I pushed him against the door and held him there and I kissed him for I don't know how long. I didn't usually initiate, so he was kind of surprised at first, but he was no less eager to reciprocate. He wrapped his arms around me and took fistfuls of my jacket while he pulled me against him, as close as was physically possible, and we ate each others faces off until we were both right back into the same situation we'd been at Stark's Pond.

I don't know what convinced me to do it. It just made it worse; I know it did. Now he would just be disappointed again, because when he started slipping his hand in between us and he tried to rub me through my jeans, I grabbed his wrist and I stopped him.

But he didn't sound it when we finally broke away. Our lips were sore and aching from the little nips and nibbles, and saliva trailed between us in a little string made shining by moonlight. We were both flushing hot, totally ignorant of the cold, and I for one was vowing that I'd never wear that particular pair of jeans around Kenny again. Way too small.

"Christ," he mumbled, and then he let out a few breathy laughs. "Little more of that and I won't be able to sleep on my stomach for a week."

I didn't respond. He was still pressed against the door; I was still supporting myself over him with one arm while the other wrapped around him, pulling him into me. I wondered what exactly I should do at that point; leave, talk, kiss him again, at least maybe let him out from under me. I didn't do anything. I just stood there and listened to his quick breathing.

"Gonna need to blow at least a few times when I get home just to get my pants on in the morning," he joked, and again, it didn't draw a reaction from me. The next time he spoke, he was concerned. "You alright? What's got into you?"

"I don't know," I answered truthfully. How should I know how I felt? All I knew was that Kenny was really warm and I still had a painful boner that I was sure he could still feel. And yet nothing had changed. "I don't know. I guess I don't feel good."

"Well, maybe you should go to sleep, get some rest."

"Yeah," I agreed, and I finally pushed myself away from him, slowly. He didn't seem quite so buoyant now. In fact, in that split second, he'd gone from coy deviant to worry wart. You could just see it, even in the dark.

"Give me a call if there's anything wrong, okay?" he said, and he continued to sound apprehensive about it.

"There's nothing wrong," I assured him. But then, something occurred to me. "But you would tell me if there was something wrong with you, right?"

His apprehension shifted to consternation. "Me? Why would there be something wrong with me?"

"Gee, I wonder," I said sardonically.

"Oh, don't worry about my folks," he assured me. "There's nothing about my home life that I can't handle on my own."

"Then, you know. If people start giving you shit for going out with me, then-"

I cut myself off because I'd basically just admitting that I considered us to be "going out." I waited for his rebuff, and it didn't come.

"Oh, you think I'm getting shit on or something because all of a sudden I'm running with a guy? Nah, man, no one bothers me."

"They don't?"

"Nope." But it wasn't truthful. You could just see it. Kenny's face was too expressive. His grin came up just short, just enough, and I only had to glare at him for a few seconds before his face fell again. "Alright, yeah, I've gotten some shit," he admitted. "Look, it's really not a big deal. It's nothing I can't handle, and my friends are all backing me up."

"Even Cartman?" I asked sardonically.

"Are you kidding? He spends an entire lunch period calling me every variation of 'fag' imaginable, and then he damn near socks some guy in the face for calling me a cocksucker. He cares, in his own way."

"That's good." I didn't really know what else I wanted from him. I guess I ultimately decided that I didn't want anything, because I backed away from him. I stepped over to my door and put my hand on the knob.

"Hey, you wait just a moment," he scolded.

"Yeah?" I half-turned to face him again, and he was holding up the book.

"You think I wouldn't notice?"

"I forgot it," I said honestly. I had. The book didn't mean a whole lot to me.

"Well, I'm here to remind you." He very purposely placed it in my hands, and I didn't fight it. "Just let me know how it turns up for you, alright?"

"Alright," I agreed. Then, just for good measure, I leaned in and pecked him on his cheek, and then I left him.

The end of Fahrenheit 451 annoyed me. The book spent way too much time wallowing in the dystopia, and then it just all goes to shit. Literally everyone dies except the main character and a few other guys and they're supposed to be like, some kind of heroes who survived an apocalypse only because they liked books. It was very irksome for me to go through an entire book only for nothing to have mattered in the end.

"What was the point of all that?" I asked Kenny. I'd called him as soon as I finished the book, a few days later; it was still lying next to me on my bed. "It was pointless."

"So?" Kenny asked.

"So?" I repeated. "The implication at the end was that society would just go back to how it is now. Everyone has books instead of no one has books. It was all a lot of brooding and one big 'read more books' campaign. Fuck, it didn't even matter whether or not Guy even lived! Everyone else could have gone along just fine, Guy didn't fucking matter at all. What did I read it for if not a goddamned thing mattered in the end?"

"I like that this upsets you so much," he commented.

"You like it?" I repeated again. "Why the hell should it make you happy? And for the record, it annoys me, it pisses me off; I'm not upset about it."

"Because the reason you're so angry about the end of the book is because nothing mattered in the end, at least for Guy. And isn't that how you live your entire life? Assuming that nothing matters, assuming that you don't matter?"

That shut me up real quick. I let the phone remain against my ear, my arm stiff as stone, but I didn't answer him.

"Anyway," he continued when I didn't speak. He sounded very tired, although it was still early in the evening. "I got shit to do. I'll see you around."

"Sure," I said. "You busy this weekend? I'm not done with you yet."

"Yeah, I am." He didn't usually blow me off like that, so brusquely and so completely, and I was a little taken aback at first.

Unfortunately, I was too surprised to say anything more substantial than, "Oh."

"It's nothing personal. I'll call you when I'm around." And just like that, he hung up on me.

At the time, I thought he was an asshole. Fucking dickwad. Fuck him anyway. I didn't care, I said.

I did.


	45. Part Five: Two Stupid Virgins

Two Stupid Virgins

Our fathers were very wise in one, specific way.

They had both once been teenage boys, and they knew that the one thing teenage boys desperately needed and would not ask for (and would rarely buy for themselves) were condoms.

And they didn't ask questions.

Puberty was a familiar friend by the time I was thirteen, but my youth didn't stop my father from including me on the existence of what he called "the condom stash." It was there, I could take from it at will, and he would replace them as needed. No questions necessary, no answers required; just use the damn things, and don't be a shithead. That was his advice. As I have said, my father was an atypically reasonable man considering he'd grown up in a Podunk little redneck town in the Rockies.

He was even considerate enough to buy the type especially built for anal, which needs a thicker, more durable condom if you didn't know, especially with how rough some people are (like Kenny). He didn't exactly like my sexuality, but it was nice to know he at least acknowledged it.

Of course, I wouldn't touch the condom stash for about four years. As I said, I'd thought I was all alone in South Park, so before Kenny, there was really no reason to use it.

Soon, I was going through them with startling speed, even with Kenny bringing his own from his family's designated stash, which was twice as large. Two teenage boys in the family. In his dad's words, "I don't need to be a fuckin' grandpa by 45 alright? I can't afford you two fuckheads as it is, so you two shitheads better not give me any grandbabies to worry about for a good long while."

Whether the two fuckheads were affordable or not, the condoms certainly were.

I do find it humorous to note that our fathers both thought we were shitheads. We certainly were. 

I remember, the only time my own father commented on the condom situation was one day in late July. Kenny and I had picked up the pace a bit after all of the awkwardness was out of the way, you know. We were putting away groceries one day, and my mother and Ruby were still bringing them in while me and him emptied the bags.

My father very purposely withdrew a box of condoms, the anal sex specific ones, and put them on the table with the pile destined for the bathroom. Casually, he asked, "Been busy lately, eh Craig?"

Having little to no sense of shame, I replied simply, "Yep."

"Still running with that McCormick kid, right?"

I didn't remind him of Kenny's name again. "Yeah."

"Things been alright with you two?"

Then, in July, things weren't really alright with me. We haven't really gotten there yet, but it was prime time of the summer apocalypse, and there was so much more happening with me than my father could even guess. Kenny was so much more to me than either of us had ever imagined he would be.

But, being me, I replied, "Yep."

He didn't bother me anymore; that at least was comforting. Not everyone has a parent who understands that some teenagers are going to have sex whether you like it or not, especially in a primarily Catholic mountain town.

February was a cold, lethargic month for us. Kenny began to spend a lot of time working on the El Camino, and I had no interest in either assisting him or watching him, mostly because I had no idea what he was talking about half the time. He'd tell me to pass him the "cherry juice" and I'd look around, expecting to see a bottle of juice lying around somewhere, and he'd just laugh if I asked if he wanted me to get him something else to drink instead. Asshole.

Kenny would be seventeen in late March. He hadn't gotten me a present for my birthday, and he already told me he wasn't expecting a gift for his either. However, he added with a wink, some of the best gifts were free, he reminded me. I would concur by gifting him with two raised middle fingers, and he would just laugh.

Kenny didn't have any new books for me after Fahrenheit 451, and not just that month; I mean period. But though it's only three simple books, we're not quite done with them yet. Fahrenheit 451, Lord of the Flies, and Catch-22. Red, white, and blue. They'll make a few more appearances before this is over, I promise. Just not for a while. The books would eventually be important, but more important right now was our combined sex drive, and what we were doing with it.

We began making out with more frequency and with more intensity, but we never quite got further than that, mostly because I would always tell him to stop. I wasn't sure why. I'd started thinking about him while I jerked off, and I would script some pretty intense fantasies about him from scratch while I did it. Sometimes it'd be on accident in extremely inconvenient places like classrooms and at the dinner table and in church, and sometimes in really creative places like bathroom stalls and the shower and in janitor closets.

No matter how many times I tried to beat out my frustrations, (my usual weekly jack-offs had turned to almost daily) I felt like I had a perpetual case of blue balls, and I imagine Kenny must have been feeling pretty miserable too. However, other than reminding me constantly that he was horny and he wanted to fuck me (which would in turn get me horny and leave me suffering until I could get alone to take care of myself) he never pressured me about it, and even if we were right in the middle of some hot and sweaty and fully clothed action, he always stopped if I said so. The question was why the fuck I kept saying so.

In mid-March, about a week before his birthday, we were hanging out in his room. His TV was broken then, so I laid in bed with him, surrounded on both sides by cats, (Fatass and Shitferbrains; Shit had taken a liking to me for some reason) with my head propped up on his shoulder. I was sort of absently watching him play PSP, (something he did incessantly) and dozing in and out.

It wasn't late, hardly dusk, but I was under the impression that we were the only ones in the house awake. I hadn't heard a peep from his siblings all night and his parents had passed out at some point around three. I suppose I must have fallen asleep for a while though, because the door opened abruptly and I jolted myself awake in response. His family didn't exactly know about us yet, and laying asleep on Kenny's shoulder didn't exactly scream "only friends."

"What the fuck was that for?" Kenny castigated his visitor. He didn't look up from his PSP. "I coulda been jackin' it, assface."

"You would, with yer faggy lil friend here," Kevin sneered. I don't think he actually knew, but sometimes, I was pretty sure he at least knew about me. "I'm just here to warn ya I'll be in the john, so if you got business to do in there, better do it quick."

"What, going for Guinness's longest jerk off or something?"

"No ya lil turdburgler, I gotta fix myself up fer a lady friend. So if'n you bother me while I'm in there, Imma gonna fix you and yer boyfriend real good."

"Git the fuck outta my room dicknugget," Kenny ordered, still staring down at his PSP.

Kevin nodded towards me, but continued to address Kenny. "And yer cockbopper over there?"

Either he didn't know my name, or insult-slinging was just how people were addressed in this family. "Nope, go on ahead."

Before he left, both cats decided they were tired of sitting in between us, and they scurried on out. When the door was closed, Kenny loudly called after him: "LIMP BISCUIT!"

From beyond the closed door, Kevin yelled back: "BONER WRANGLER!"

Kenny set down his PSP and sighed. Then, now that the cats were gone, he rolled over and began to snuggle right into me, unabashed, making a big deal over it and making stupid little noises that were kind of cute. He did things like this sometimes, and I had just learned to tolerate it. He liked cuddling a lot. I think part of the reason he liked doing it was because then, how he usually settled down, I could plainly feel his hard-on against my leg.

"So you and your brother aren't big fans of each other, huh?" I asked, while he did all of this. I remained still, other than sliding down a bit so that I rest comfortably on the pillow.

"Naw, we secretly love each other. That's just how we express affection." He rubbed his cheek on my chest, getting nice and comfortable, finding just the right spot to use as a pillow, and then he plopped down and was finally still. 

"You tired or somethin'?" I asked.

Kenny snorted into my shirt. "You were the one who was knocked out for a good hour, Craigy."

"I was tired, and please don't call me that."

"Jeeze, fine." He clung closer to me and hugged me tight and, not making any secret about it, he rubbed his crotch into my leg, nice and slowly grinding on it. I'd been pretty good about keeping myself under control that day, but of course, that kind of thing was bound to provoke me.

"Cut it out," I said, and I shifted a little to the side, away from him.

"What's wrong?" he teased. "Afraid of popping a chubby and getting all bothered?"

"Maybe," I said coolly. Popping it wasn't the problem; the problem was that it was already there.

Kenny scooted up a little higher, not quite reaching my lips but instead contenting himself with my neck. He licked my neck with just the tip of his tongue, slow, agonizingly slow, and then he closed his mouth and rubbed his lips over my throat, dry and chapped and rough, and he breathed softly and warmly over my skin while I involuntarily sighed and breathed a little too loudly. Soon I couldn't take it anymore, and I grabbed his collar and pulled him up to kiss me, if just to get him away from my neck. 

Kenny was smirking as he leaned into me, and while his lips were pressed against mine, the pressure was slight, just barely there, not even remotely forceful or demanding. Still, my cheeks burned, and I could feel his weight just casually pushing into me. He climbed over top of me, holding himself on his hands and knees while he kissed me. Then he started pushing more, and he put his hand in between us.

"Ken-" I warned him, sharply. Breaking away from his lips to berate him was like breaking away from air. "Knock it off, don't be an asshole." Yeah, he'd hardly even touched me and I was flushing culpably and breathing hard. But I still wanted him to stop, because I knew where he was headed, and I wasn't sure if I wanted that.

"I like that," he informed me. That's all he said; he didn't acknowledge the kiss or the way he held himself over me or even how much I was blushing. Not that he was any better; his freckles were lost in the red encompassing his cheeks, and honestly, that made me feel a little better. The fact that he was embarrassed too. "No one ever calls me Ken. My old girlfriend used to, but it always felt kinda weird. I kinda like it when you do it though."

I didn't even know what to say. I wanted to scowl and demand to know why he had to bring up an old girlfriend at a time like this and demand to know what exactly made me so special that he liked hearing it from me, but instead I just said, absently, "I think it sounds weird."

"Why?"

"Because, I don't know." I pushed my upper body up a little, trying to escape the vulnerable position he had me in. He backed up a little, but not much. "Ken. It's too serious for you. It reminds me of like, the Barbie doll guy."

Kenny laughed and that eased the tension a bit, but not much. He hadn't moved away; his arms were still on either side of me, his chest still pressed against mine, his lips still practically touchable if I were ambitious enough to stick out my tongue.

"Well, I ain't no Ken and you ain't no Barbie, that's for sure."

"Damn right," I agreed.

"Damn skippy, I'm right," he said, and then he pushed me down and he kissed me, and while he hovered over me, I thought about asking him to stop again, and I didn't.

Kenny was very firm and very gentle, and he never rushed, not once, not for a single movement. He practically crept over me, like I was asleep and he was scared to wake me. I just let him kiss me and touch me, slight, his hands trailing at first from my collar bone to my neck to my face, and Christ, my face was just burning up.

It was really weird at first. Of course we'd made out before, gotten real hot and heavy before, but this was nothing like that. Usually he was practically trying to rip my clothes off by this point, but he kept moving slow. But his tongue was bold and persistent, even though I remained hesitant, and he didn't let up. He practically swallowed my tongue, mercilessly nibble my lips, dove down to teasingly suckle my neck, and he did it all effortlessly, instinctively, before I could even think of what to do next. I was completely at his mercy, and while at first it was kind of hot, it very quickly became overpowering.

By the time he pulled away long enough to give me a breather, my head was spinning. I gaped after him, mouth wide open like a fish out of water, and then he made a little noise in his throat and he came after my lips again. Before he could steal me away again, I put my hand in between us, palm out, fingers extended, creating a solid wall through which he couldn't pass. His eyes were burning for me, but he didn't seem upset. In fact, he sheepishly apologized.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to get so heavy so fast."

"It's okay, I don't mind. I just need a minute."

"Sure." He'd lowered himself down onto me. Not only could I feel his warm weight pressing into me, but he already had a pretty serious bone on from the feel of it, and he was shameless about letting me know about it. He rubbed it against me and groaned that throaty hum and he breathed into my ear. "Fuck, I'm so horny, Craig, please tell me you're there too."

"I'm somewhere, alright." I just rubbed back against him, equally as shameless. Maybe I was desperate; a little foreplay had me sporting steel, and I was starting to care a little less about the direction this was taking. Erections have a bad habit of eliminating good judgment.

"Fuck yeah," he growled. Then he started grinding on me, and at first I gasped because I didn't expect it, but then I wrapped my arms around him and I ground right back. We bucked our hips against each other, fully clothed, and God, it got hot fast, I could tell the friction was really doing something for both of us, and he was whispering to me the whole time in a low, shaky voice: "Oh fuck yeah, you feel how bad I want you? How fucking hard my cock is for you?"

"Mhm, yeah..."

"Do you want me too?"

"Yeah," I breathed. I didn't care anymore. I was too horny to care anymore. "Fuck yeah I do." And I bucked into him again, and he did the same, and we just kissed sloppily while we grew more and more desperate for satisfaction any way we could get it.

"Christ, fuckin' Christ," he groaned, and he lifted up his hips and he started attacking my pants, mine, not his, I noticed, and he was a little clumsy at first, a little hasty, but not nervous.

Meanwhile, I was still waiting for that annoying little cynical part of me to suddenly speak up and say, no, no you shouldn't do this, don't do it, but it didn't. It remained silent, even when Kenny successfully unbuttoned and unzipped my pants and then he began pulling them down. I arched into him and helped shimmy out of them, and just that easy I was on his bed in just a t-shirt and briefs, with a pronounced bulge practically erupting from the crotch of those briefs. I didn't have time to feel self-conscious before he put his hand over it and started to rub, and I clutched onto him and sighed happily, but that wasn't enough for him.

"Do you like this?" he asked.

"Oh fuck yeah." My voice was hardly above a whisper.

"Tell me," he urged me in a husky voice. "Tell me how it feels," and he sensually squeezed and jerked and I inhaled sharply.

"Ah, it feels good; fuck, Ken, it feels good..."

I saw him grin when I called him Ken. It had sort of been an accident that time, but he clearly liked it. "Good." His fingers were toying with the elastic around my waist, starting to pinch at it and pull it down. "I'm gonna jerk you 'til you squirm and then blow you 'til you scream, baby. I'm gonna swallow you 'til I fuckin' choke."

I started shaking as he touched me, gently stroking me through the cotton until I was grunting and he grew bolder and his hand slipped inside, and his fingertips had hardly even touched me before my upper body jolted up and I asked, suddenly, "Do you have a rubber?"

And he just looked down at me and I looked back at him and he didn't even have to say anything. He didn't. And he was about to punch himself in the face over it; you could just see the frustration flow over his face like a shadow. Just when I'd finally decided to go for it, just when it finally seemed right, it all just fell apart over something that simple.

"Well, that was short-lived," I said dryly.

"Fuck dude," Kenny breathed. "Can we just-"

"No."

"They're in the bathroom, but-" He didn't have to finish. Their water seemed to be working, and their house was so shoddily built that we could hear the shower from his bed. His brother was still in there, and neither of us felt like getting fixed that night.

He desperately dove towards his nightstand and yanked out his drawers, but his search turned up nothing. I could tell he was trying very hard not to get pissed off about his lack of foresight, and to be honest, I was too.

We were at the breaking point and neither of us had a goddamned condom, and both of us thought back to the condom stashes we'd had readily available to us since we even knew what ejaculation was and we mentally, vehemently swore at ourselves for it never occurring to us to actually carry one with us. In the time it would take to find and obtain one, the moment would be lost, we would both feel really awkward, and, probably, I would stop him again. I'd lost my nerve.

I began pushing him away, and he slowly backed up, not entirely off of me but pausing conspicuously between my legs. I just wanted him to get away; the sooner we just got away from each other and got out of this situation, the sooner we'd be away from making a mistake and causing trouble for ourselves. Sure I was still hard as a rock, and he probably was too, but that wouldn't last forever; it never did.

However, this time, Kenny wasn't to be dismissed so easily. "Please, I promise I don't have anything!"

"The biggest slut in South Park? Yeah, right."

Kenny looked very hurt; he actually sat up, on his knees with his legs folded up under him, and he rest his hands on his thighs. He looked like he had never been so insulted in his life. "I'm not a slut," he said.

"Sure you aren't," I agreed, sardonically.

"I'm not, dude. I know people say a lot of things and I talk a lot of shit, but I don't sleep around. That ain't my style. I'm no heartbreaker."

"You've never had sex. Kenny McCormick is a virgin."

He wilted a little there and looked a little guilty. "Okay, I've been blown by a couple of girls before. And I've exchanged handies with a guy before. But I swear that's it."

"That's it?" I said. I thought my words were practically dripping in sarcasm, but Kenny didn't catch on.

"That's it."

See, for a guy who had never even seen another guy naked except in porn, that was pretty active. And I sort of wondered what the precise number would have to be in order to be attributed to "a couple."

Still, I guess by some standards, Kenny was still technically considered a virgin, and I admit, it surprised me. It didn't exactly change my mind though.

"That's really it," I said, to clarify.

"That's really it," he repeated. He was starting to sound frustrated, defensive. "Fucking Catholic chicks man, they want to tie the knot before you fuck 'em. That's how it is around here, but they give fucking great blowjobs. I'm sorry we aren't all perfectly pure little virgins like yourself."

Few things got under my skin, and being taunted for my virginity was not usually one of those things. It was a stupid, immature thing to tease someone about and it was nothing new. But somehow it hurt more coming from Kenny, especially knowing that he'd never really done anything himself, not REALLY, and here I'd thought he was some kind of sex master.

Still, I had to fight back. "I'm sorry we don't all just get casual blowjobs like it's nothing," I countered.

Kenny just threw up his hands and scoffed. "Isn't that what this is though? Right now? This is casual sex. Because it's not like we care about each other; not like that. We aren't dating, right?"

You might think this might have in some way bothered me, but it didn't. You already know that I did not consider Kenny to be my boyfriend and I did not really consider us to be dating. "No, we aren't."

"It's not like once we see each others junk we're stuck together forever or something. Sex and love are two completely different things."

"Yeah, I guess." 

"And if we did anything, I wouldn't expect you to look at it as anything but like an extension of masturbating. Basically meaningless getting off. Fuck buddies. Same?"

That was it, that was a good word for it. No attachment, no commitment. Kenny was putting into words exactly what I hadn't realized I'd been wanting. "Yeah."

"So do you want a casual blowjob or not?" he finally asked.

"No condoms," I pointed out again.

"Even if I had contracted something from a chick blowing me, it wouldn't transfer from my dick to my mouth, asshole."

"You could be lying. You could have blown a guy before. Then there's Syphilis. Gonorrhea. Chlamydia."

"You could be lying about being a virgin too; doesn't make me any less interested in sucking your dick."

"But, I don't lie," I reminded him.

"You're fucking human; humans fucking lie. Even the most honest men are lying fucking shitbags if they have to be. Do you want me to suck your dick or not?"

The thing was, and this was really weird; arguing with Kenny was really turning me on. The more frustrated he got, the more it affected me; the further his cocky grin deepened into a frown and the more his eyes grew hard and his jaw grew rigid, the more I could actually feel my cock throbbing. He looked at me with those pouty lips and I just wanted them wrapped around my cock so bad. And it wasn't just a passing fantasy; it was keen longing. Desire. I'd never felt that for another person before, not one who was willing to submit to that desire anyway.

I'd never had a blowjob before and I was in the middle of a throbbing hard on with Kenny in between my legs and practically begging me to suck it. What would you have done? What would anyone have done?

You know I liked facts, and the facts were this: I was so hard it hurt, and Kenny wanted to blow me, and I couldn't think of anything that could possibly overrule those two things.

"Okay," I said. "Do it."

He did. And it was amazing. He'd never blown another guy before, at least he said he hadn't, but God, either he knew how to work his mouth or I was absolutely, unbelievably desperate.

I shoved my fist in my mouth to stifle my groans, but my other hand couldn't figure out what it wanted to do. It clenched up on my stomach and then started it ripping at the sheets and then at his hair and he just kept going. My legs were shaking and my hips were jerking and I was just a mess; a complete mess, something I had never really been before. My hand didn't even come close to the hot euphoria that was Kenny's mouth. Fuck the Catholic girls; Catholic boys knew how to give a blowjob too.

I remember when I came, I tried to warn him. I'd barely lasted two minutes, if that; I couldn't help it. It had just felt so good and I hadn't gotten off in a while, and then it just came up on me all at once. I waited too long; I took a fistful of his hair and I tried to tell him, in a breathless cry, "I'm gonna cum-" but I couldn't even finish my sentence. I got about two syllables in before I was gasping and then I just lost it in his mouth. And he didn't care; he just went still and let it pool in his throat, and when I was done I could feel him swallowing it and licking it off of me.

Cum tastes awful, alright? It's just...icky and gross and just awful. Kenny said he liked it, he said he licked up his own when he was done sometimes, so maybe I'm just weird. But from my personal experience, it was nasty. To this day, I can hardly tolerate it. So at the time, I remember feeling really guilty about not warning him in time, about just spunking right in his mouth without even a how ya doin'.

But I also didn't care, because it had been the best orgasm of my very young, very inexperienced life, and all I could do was just lay there stupidly and wonder if you felt that good when you died.

After, he had emerged from between my legs with that angry pout transformed into that devious smirk, licking his lips like the idiot he was and all I could do was sort of weakly swat at him and mumble that he was an asshole. Then, he settled in right next to me and started trying to pull me onto my side. I was basically still dead and pliable, so I went with it, and then he started kissing me and at first I cringed away because I could taste my stuff on his lips, but then he kept kissing me and grinding on me and making cute little noises that made you just know he was desperate and he needed some of that sweet release himself.

I felt bad that I didn't know how to react, and at first I just sort of lay there and let him grind on me. Knowing what to do was one thing; knowing HOW to do it was another. I'd watched enough porn that I should have just jumped right into it, but I couldn't. I felt completely inept, but at the same time, it was really gratifying to know that I didn't even have to do anything for Kenny to be this horny. Maybe he was just a disgusting pervert all on his own and he would have been horny anyway, but the fact was that he was rubbing on me like he was about to explode, and I was the one making him feel that way.

I don't know; it's kind of invigorating to have that much control over someone. Control comes in many shapes and sizes; it's a very variable thing.

"Fuck, just...jerk me off," he panted. I think he knew I wasn't exactly at the point where I could give him a return blowjob. "Oh fuck man, come on, I'm dying here..."

When I came to, I kissed him and let my hand creep into his jeans. I stroked him firmly through his briefs until he was clutching onto me and sighing and I knew I was doing something right. Then I got bolder and slid him through the opening, and for the first time I was actually touching someone's junk. Not just holding it, stroking it.

It felt kind of awkward at first and sort of unnervingly intimate. To be honest, it made me really uncomfortable. Human interaction in general made me uncomfortable; you could just imagine intimacy. A blowjob I didn't have to look at him while he did it, but this was almost too much.

I wanted to stop, but I couldn't, or at least I told myself I couldn't. It wouldn't be fair, I was telling myself while my heart pounded and anxiety started beating down my arousal inspired courage. But it wouldn't be fair, and it was making Kenny so happy, he looked like he was in heaven just because I was touching it, and I couldn't possibly stop.

I jerked him dryly until he pointed out his nightstand and mumbled something about Vaseline in the top drawer, (what did I tell you? A fuckin' perv) and then it went a lot smoother, and I regained some of my confidence. My long, slow strokes started going a little faster and a little harder and soon he was groaning and bucking his hips while he grunted into my neck.

I'd closed my eyes to block out the sight of him; I was just getting over touching him, it would have been too much to watch him yet. But just for a second I opened my eyes, and he was looking straight at me, right in my face, and he was just blushing bright red and it made me flush hotly and his eyes were just screaming sex at me, Christ, he was fucking me with his eyes, I could practically fucking feel it. Then he grabbed my head and started roughly kissing and biting my lips and thrusting into my hand until he just tensed up and groaned into my mouth, and just like that it was over.

We both remained lying there, both of us breathing deeply and me with a semi after all the work it had taken to get Kenny there; could you blame me after those looks he was giving me? And then he just started making this infuriating little snickering noise that made my hair stand on end, and you can bet I, indignantly, called him on it.

"What's so funny?" 

"Do you jerk off like that?" he asked. He didn't sound cruel or anything, like he was making fun of me. It was an honest question. So I answered honestly.

"I don't do it much."

"Really? Like, how often?"

BK, Before Kenny, I hadn't done it a lot. Once or twice a week. As of about a month ago, I'd started doing it almost every day. But I didn't want to come off as a total perv, so I averaged it out. "Two or three times a week, I guess."

Kenny made a noise like I had just punched him in the throat. "That's it?"

I thought then that maybe I'd undershot it, and I should have known. This was Kenny we were talking about. "Yeah. So?"

"Jesus Christ. I whack it like two or three times a day."

"That's because you're a disgusting pervert," I told him in utmost seriousness.

Kenny just laughed, and it was so free and so careless that I just smiled. Normally it would piss me off if people laughed at me, but I didn't mind it. The way he smiled and his eyes scrunched up and his whole face glowed; it just made me really happy when Kenny laughed. I didn't care what it was about.

"Point taken," he acknowledged. "Now, first of all, don't go thinking that I didn't love you jacking me off, because trust me, the look on your face the whole time just drove me fucking nuts and I would do that again in a heartbeat."

"Okay," I said. I knew there was more.

"But, I think with your inexperience, your technique could just use a little improvement. Is that fair?"

"Yeah, I guess." I hadn't exactly practiced giving other guys handies before, and while I was pretty content with the way I did it, I guess Kenny had other ideas.

"Alright, so, how about I show you what it's like to make love to your hand rather than fuck it?"

I was gonna say a lot; how he was being stupid and you couldn't make love to your hand and that I wasn't really up for more and that I wasn't all that hard at the moment and how I just wanted to lie there and hold him and I didn't even care how faggy that sounded.

But I didn't. I laid with him, both of us on our sides, him staring right at me while my face was practically on fire with a mixture of embarrassment and shame and arousal, and he reached in between my legs and he found my cock. There was that moment of discomfort again, of the unnerving intimacy of being touched, but it quickly went away when his hand started moving. He went gentle at first, only because it took a few minutes for me to really get into it again; I'd never done it back to back like that before. But as soon as I managed to get it up again, he made fucking love to my dick with his hand just like he'd said he would, and I was a mess all over again.

For me, whacking one off consisted of basically fucking my hand for a few minutes. This was slightly different and I don't really know how to explain it. It's not really that it's more gentle, it's just more purposeful. Like, it's not just jerking up and down, but you're still doing that, it's just the way you hold it and squeeze it, and he'd do this slight little spin as he went down that just made me shudder. And he would touch it so lightly all over; he would thumb the head and the bit just underneath it (the frenulum, I've since learned it's called) and he would stroke me with his thumb, just his thumb, nice and slow up and down and it almost felt like when he did it with his tongue, and Christ it felt so good.

I managed to hold on long enough for him to recover too, (I had a feeling it was not a great feat for him) and then we were grinding on each other. He held both of us in his hand and he was stroking us both at the same time while he rubbed our dicks together and I think I was on the verge of whimpering when I came the second time.

If I was honest I'd preferred the blowjob; faster, easier, cleaner. But there was no doubt that his way was way better than the casual jerking off I did, and besides, now I got to watch him finish. I'd gotten over my shyness and I shamelessly watched him pleasure himself and he made love to his hand until his toes curled and his hips twitched and his head collapsed into the pillow and there was cum just all over his hands, mine and his. His eyes weren't open anymore, but his face was just twisted in this blushing, pleasureful agony that it just made me shiver watching him. 

"Holy fuck, that feels good," he mumbled.

"Yeah." We both drew in a long, shaky breath and then let it go.

"You just let me know if you wanna do that again later." This fucking pervert. The stuff on his hand from his last orgasm was probably still warm and he was implying that he wanted to do it again later.

"Are you kidding me?"

"No? I think you're hot and you make me horny."

"I'm pretty sure I'm good."

"Alright."

"I mean, I've never even come twice in one day before, so..."

Kenny opened his eyes and looked at me like I'd just admitted that I had nine toes on each foot or something. "Really?"

"We aren't all raunchy perverts like you," I said, defensively.

"Damn, you're hopeless."

"And you're disgusting."

I wasn't completely hopeless. It's true that first time completely sapped my energy, but later, under the careful instruction of one Kenny McCormick, I'd be able to go again almost immediately with no trouble, and coming two or three (or on some especially active days, four or five) times a day wouldn't be too difficult. It would be energy consuming, but not really trouble.

But back then, I could hardly even move, and I had no energy at all; just none. So I just laid there next to him and we loosely held each other and talked nonsense until we both passed out, and if his parents or his brother ever came to check up on us and they walked in and found us curled around each other reeking of sex, they never said anything.


	46. Part Five: Fuck Buddies

Fuck Buddies

I learned a few things from Kenny that month.

Number one, Kenny's porn stash was of considerable size, and many of them he admitted he kept not because the videos or pictures were particularly good, but because he just really wanted to try some of the positions.

Some of them I weren't sure were actually physically possible.

Anyway, owing to his having never had a full sexual partner before, he had been stuck with all these creative sexual positions and no way to experiment with them. That's where I came in, and while I thought most of them were silly, I was compliant enough to agree to do it anyway. We did seven or so that first month, and I admit some of them were pretty fucking sweet.

Number two, Kenny was indifferent to positions. Not different sex positions, I mean, I mean like relationship positions. Top and bottom were obsolete concepts to him. He didn't care which of us topped, me or him, and he had no interest in keeping track. Sex was sex and if he came, he was good, so we just got into it and whatever happened, happened. And if I asked one night for it to be one way instead of another, he never said boo. I kinda liked that. I didn't really know what I preferred yet, so it was nice to have options.

Number three, the carpet did not match the drapes.

Apparently this is pretty common for blonds, but, I was just kinda surprised at first is all. I hadn't been expecting it. I mean, my hair is all pitch black everywhere so I just sort of figured it'd be that way for most people – it would match whatever was on your head. And most porn stars I'd seen were clean-shaven, (twinks always go for that youthful look; it's part of the job description) so I'd never exactly gotten a good look, and when most of his was brown instead of blond, well, anyway, alright, that one isn't really relevant. I'm just pointing it out. We'll call it story immersion.

As for the sex itself, well... let me make it explicitly clear that anal sex isn't anywhere near as simple as the other kind. Chicks have it easy, alright? They even make their own lubricant for Christ's sake.

It's not an easy thing taking it up the ass, especially when you've never done it before, especially when you're a stupid teenager who doesn't know anything. This was tricky. Very tricky. And we didn't exactly have a lot of resources to pursue other than the internet, not in our backwoods town. Porn wasn't exactly accurate; we learned very fast that spit was not a very adequate replacement for lubricant.

I couldn't speak for Kenny's experience when it came to the mysteries of the rectum, but for me, I'd fingered myself before. That was the extent of my sexual endeavors. It had felt pretty good and I'd liked it and I really liked jerking off while I did it, but unfortunately, the real thing wasn't that easy.

Kenny and I tried it four times before we had anything even remotely resembling sex. Me on top once, the first time, and when that was a spectacular failure of epic proportions for reasons best left unmentioned, him topping the other three times.

And it hurt, alright?

We'd be making out and everything, and then he'd be fingering me and I'd be jerking off and just gently thrusting against his fingers and he'd be kissing me and it would feel great. And then the second he actually tried to penetrate me, it was just like FUCK, HELL no, get the FUCK out of there. At one point I reflex punched him and gave him a nice black eye for his trouble. Yeah, it was bad. So much for fuck buddies who couldn't fuck.

Then we finally managed to do it once and from then on it just clicked. Yeah it still kind of hurt a bit at first, but he managed to get the head inside and then the rest just followed smoothly and it didn't hurt. It felt kind of weird at first, yeah, but he gently jerked me off during the worst of it and he gently talked me through it and went slow at first, and then it actually felt kind of good. It was the first time he'd actually managed to fuck me to completion, (his, anyway; I'd had to finish myself off) and I remember at the end having been disappointed that it hadn't lasted longer.

I'd wondered at the time if this meant both of us had officially lost our virginities or just him. You know, penetration and all. Technicalities.

It didn't matter much. Kenny and I would soon be waving whatever virginity we had so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye. We fucked a lot. We were horny pretty much all the time and we were together almost every day. I'd never quite realized how much of the general frustration in my life could be eliminated with enough sex, you see. I always said I didn't care about anything, which was mostly true, but after sex, I achieved like the next level of apathy. It was practically zen what I achieved after a good fuck, and let me explain that while Kenny was young and truthfully inexperienced, he gave me a lot of good fucks. And with us not really having a reliable place to have these fucks, we got creative. The El Camino saw a lot of action, in particular. The cadence was wrong; both the front and the back were for fucking.

As for what our relationship was, officially, its status was confirmed shortly after we started having sex on a regular basis. Mind you, to me, having full on sex three or four times a week and then exchanging handies and blowjobs in between qualified as a lot of sex to me. Apparently it wasn't quite enough for Kenny.

One night, just after our first month or so of really getting into it, he called me while I was eating dinner with my family. I excused myself to take the call, (no phones at the table; this rule had been very quickly implemented when I did nothing but stare at my new iPhone for entire meals) and of course my mother and sister snickered and exchanged knowing looks like women do.

"Going to talk to your BOYFRIEND, Craig?" Ruby would tease me.

"He's not my boyfriend," I would answer simply.

Kenny confirmed this less than twenty seconds later, and as soon as I answered, he wasted no time.

"Listen, this is just a question, alright? I'm not expecting you to say yes or no. I'm not expecting you to say anything. I just want us to be on the same page."

"Okay?" I made no effort to hide the impatience in my voice. I hated being dragged around with disclaimers and defensiveness before even being told the facts. "So, what?"

"I'm with this girl right now. Smoking hot, like, 'hot damn I need to take a shower' hot. And she likes me, and I think I can score a blowjob if not more."

"Okay...?"

"I just wanted to like, be clear here. You know, be totally sure that we're not exclusive. That this wasn't a one-on-one thing. I just want a clear answer."

"You want to be sure that you getting some tail doesn't qualify as cheating," I reiterated.

He sounded relieved that I'd caught on so fast. "Yes, exactly. Because if you don't want me seeing other people, if this is like a dating thing and it bothers you, I can just turn her down if she does-"

"You are not my boyfriend," I said, very direct, very to the point. "I don't give a fuck what you do. Just use protection."

"Are you sure?" Kenny sounded kind of surprised. I think he was expecting me to get upset; he'd been kind of hesitant before, stepping on egg shells.

"I'm sure," I told him. "Fuck her. I don't care."

"Awesome, great. Then, yeah, I'm gonna go fuck this bitch silly. I'll see you tomorrow and I'll tell you all about her gorgeous tits, alright?"

"Please don't."

"No, you don't understand," he insisted. "The fact that tits like these exist is why I'm bi, okay? Tits like these would straighten out the leaning tower of Pisa. They'd turn your crooked teeth straight, and your dick straight to boot. Hey, let's say hypothetically, if she were into a threesome-"

"You are disgusting," I informed him, with no malice, and I hung up.

See? It didn't really matter. I was well aware of this asshole's sex drive before getting myself into it. I was just glad that he wasn't forcing me to go along with his every sexual whim and that he could still find other suitors in between. It wasn't that big a deal to me for someone to have sex with many different people at once, as long as they used condoms. I thought society had placed an unreasonable restriction on sex, for it to only be exclusive to being with one person at a time. It made no sense to me.

Sex was not love. You didn't need one to have the other. The trouble was just that one often led to the other.

I should note Kenny's willingness to turn down what was evidently a mind-blowing pair of breasts if it would make me uncomfortable. The fact that he was willing to be exclusive if that had been what I wanted didn't really hit home for a long time, and by then it was too late.

You might not think this was healthy, but recall, we had designated each other as fuck buddies right from the start. I certainly had no interest in weighing myself down with a relationship before I even got out of high school, and Kenny didn't either. We were fine being each others booty calls and nightly comforts. We were experimenting with our sexuality and getting off at the same time. It was mutual masturbation, basically; it meant nothing.

Well, it meant something. We just didn't realize it at the time.


	47. Part Five: The Freedom of Proles

The Freedom of Proles

After a while, I began to see a little more into Kenny's world, and while he was usually pretty upbeat and generally a happy person, if not almost obnoxiously so, he was prone to brooding fits and he had a tendency towards sudden, inexplicable states of depression. It had been easy to overlook when our primary interaction consisted of texts and phone calls, but now that we were inclined to spending a lot more of our time in physical company with each other, it was all too obvious. He hid it well; in texts he was always plucky and his voice was always chipper and he was quick to throw up a smile to deflect any awkward questions. But it was there. You could feel it, even if you sometimes couldn't see it. Like something was dying in him and he was trying desperately, desperately to keep it alive before anyone else could see.

Oftentimes, when he was in those moods, he just found reasons not to talk to me, and I was okay with that. I respected giving someone their space, especially someone I wasn't actually dating, and I would wait until he would get over whatever his current issue was. I became accustomed to being casually blown off, and if I sensed one of his moods coming on, I usually just left of my own accord. Not because I didn't want to deal with him when he was like that, but because I had a feeling he didn't want to deal with me.

Usually, the source was obvious. It wasn't weird for me to show up to school with a black eye or a split lip because Tweek and I fought all the time. It wasn't the same for Kenny. It wasn't hard to notice these these little melancholic bumps usually followed him showing up at school one day with his face rearranged, and it wasn't hard to determine the reason why. Kenny's folks had a short temper.

I tried to stay out of it when I could. It's not really because I didn't care, although I'll admit that I was definitely colder than most people who would probably be aghast at the very concept that their friend was living in an abusive household. We all turned a blind eye to it, I think, in that town. Kenny didn't like talking about it and he didn't like people asking him stupid questions. Why do you think he always wore that damn parka that hid every inch of his skin?

However, there came one day that Kenny was more despondent than usual, and the habit continued for a good deal longer than I thought was necessary. It interfered with our sex life, (when in a solemn mood, Kenny almost always preferred to receive, and that got very boring for me) it interfered with our not-dates, (it's hard enough to maintain conversation the way I was; with him we would potentially sit through hours of silence) and it resulted in him being a lot less patient with my stolid demeanor and casual cutting remarks, which usually resulted in us getting pissy at each other.

I didn't try to force the truth from him; not for a while, anyway. But his disquiet eventually got to me after a good week or two of it. I can tolerate people being a little down in the dumps, but perpetual sadness irked me, and you already know all of the other things that were suffering as a result. As Kenny's not-boyfriend, it was my obligation to snap him out of whatever little pit of despair he was stuck in when it started becoming problematic for me.

"What the hell is wrong with you lately?" I asked one morning. It was cold; we had strong coffee on our breath and then it hung in the air in front of us like clouds.

Kenny just sort of gave me one of his halfhearted little grins. "Is it that obvious?" he asked. He always sounded like he was amused in a forced sort of way, like he was replying to a joke that had not quite hit his funny bone, but he appreciated the effort nonetheless. Like life was one big, fat joke for him, except the joke had bombed and fallen flat on its face, and he still insisted on laughing at it.

"Obvious?" I repeated. "You're walking around like those fucking goth kids that talk about darkness and shit all the time."

"Am I?" he asked listlessly.

"Yeah. You get in these funks sometimes, I get it, but this one's deep. Something's eating at you."

"Yeah," he said. He dug his toes into the snow, still bearing that sad little smile. "My brother up and joined the army."

I frowned and raised a brow. I felt like there wasn't much reason to say anything else.

"11X. Infantryman," he elaborated. "He signed up and shipped out and didn't even tell my folks until the day before he left for basic. They were so proud of him, you know."

"Well, I don't blame the guy. It's the only place your dumbfuck brother will ever do anything."

"He told me I'd understand one day," he muttered, like he hadn't even heard me. "I got into such a huge fight with him over it. A pissing contest, really. Boy howdy, I never got into it with Kev like that before." He almost sounded alarmed, like he was only just learning of this himself as he explained it to me. "Even our folks wouldn't step in. He calls me a disgrace for hating my country and I call him a disgrace for being a part of everything that's wrong with this country, for willingly going to step in with a bunch of fucking war criminals."

"I didn't realize people still gave a fuck about this country either way."

Kenny's frown deepened at my offhand remark, but he chose to ignore me. As angry as it made him, he continued to justify his brother's behavior, sort of indignantly, like I had challenged his decision or criticized it. "He said it was the only way to make money. Folks don't got no money for college and Kev ain't too bright, so no scholarships. No damn jobs in this whole damn state it seems like. Army says if you come shoot some guys for us, we'll give you some money every month and a bed and some food and even some college. But you gotta work; you gotta go to the desert."

He was sort of in his own little world, it seemed. So after the poor reception to my previous comment, I decided it was wiser for me to just let him talk. I didn't know how to respond to him, and when that was the case, so it seemed better just to let him talk.

"Feels like the country takes better care of its soldiers than its damn citizens," he growled, and he pulled a pack out of his jacket and slid a cigarette out. Normally he would pass one to me automatically, but today I had to nudge him for one, which he gave absently.

After he lit us both up, he continued, still in that melancholic, almost monotonous voice, "Do you know what the poverty line is in this country?"

I thought about it for a second. "Like, eighteen grand a year or something."

"Twenty," he corrected. He took a long drag and let it out in a long sigh. "For a nuclear family with two parents and two kids, the poverty line is $20,444 a year. Kev bein' out of the picture it's just two parents and two kids for us now. What do your parents make?"

"Maybe like, twenty-six, twenty-seven."

"So yours doesn't get full welfare. You get some, a little assistance, but not full."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Would you say your family's well off?"

"Well enough. Better than some."

"By some, you mean me," he clarified.

"By some, I mean folks who got full welfare. If you wanna be a pussy little shit about it, then yeah, you."

Kenny still had that rigid scowl on his face, and my pathetic little joke didn't even slightly faze him. I reminded myself that I was supposed to keep quiet, keep my responses to a minimum. "I ain't fuckin' proud to be on welfare, you know," he said. "My folks report about ten grand a year 'cuz my Ma still got that Olive Garden egg. Rest of what they make and don't report up is in drugs and shit. So obviously I get full welfare, and that gets us by. With Kev and me eventually turning 18 we get a bit less, but it still comes in."

"Alright," I said, and I flicked my ash to the ground. I wasn't seeing a point.

"You know what they estimate it taking the average family to make it by in this economy? 'bout twenty grand per adult and at least half that per child, so for a nuclear family at least $60,000, with both parents working. You know what the average household makes? About $40,000."

"So it's kinda low," I said with a shrug.

"It is kinda low. It's damn low. But it ain't low enough for folks to get government assistance. You gotta be living in squalor to catch a break, even if you can't pay your bills, even if you make less than what you need to live."

"Most people live beyond their means, though."

"Stan's dad makes about forty grand a year and his mom takes in about fifteen grand working part time, so they should be pretty well off according to the government."

"I would call Marsh pretty solidly middle class, yeah."

"They ain't. Car bills and utility bills and mortgage and debts burn all of their money away. Plus the money his parents make gets chopped up by taxes before they can even touch it. And there's doctor visits too. Stan had bronchitis twice last year and that's a doctor to look at him and then antibiotics and steroids and an inhaler each time. Want to guess how much it was?"

I felt like Kenny had been talking without making his point for too long. I was not to be moved by speeches or heartfelt stories or anything else; it was all a lot of irrelevant information to me. I wanted his point. I wanted to know exactly what he was trying to say to me, and why. "So, what, you just think all our problems would be solved if everyone was on welfare? If no one had to pay for food or medical and the government just took care of everything? Ain't that Communism?"

"I don't fucking know what I think, I'm just talking. And no, that ain't Communism. Theoretically, in Communism, there would be no government and there would be no poor and rich, there would just be people and goods and people needing and trading goods, and that ain't the answer either."

"Then, what is?"

"I don't know." Kenny flicked his cigarette to the ground and stomped on it. He was hunched over, staring at the slush on the ground and holding his hands and maybe trying to make sense of it all in his head. It was one of the very rare times I actually got to see a serious face on Kenny McCormick, and it was actually a very disturbing change. With his half-assed smirk faded away, he looked grave and dignified, and incredibly old. "They say the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, but where do the rest fit in? Where's the rest of America?"

"Making the country run, I guess."

"This is supposed to be the greatest country in the world," he mumbled. "This is America. This is supposed to be the land of possibilities and prosperity. The beaten and oppressed would sacrifice everything to reach the land of the free. People used to immigrate here, travel thousands of miles just for a shot at a better life. They would die getting here just to try to have a better life. And now what the hell are we?"

"Now we're living in modern times," I said. "Besides, this country is still better than most, I think."

"We don't produce anything, we don't create anything, we don't achieve anything. All we do is go to war and drill for oil everywhere. We don't even let people immigrate here no more, and whoever's stuck in this cesspool doesn't even contribute to society. We're bottom ranked in every fucking thing dude, everything except heart disease and obesity, and man, we take the cake on that shit."

"I guess, but, compare us to a third-world country like Nigeria or something, well, we look pretty hot." I sort of meant this to be a sort of joke, and once again, it completely went over his head, and he ignored me.

"Did you pick up 1984 in middle school?" he asked.

"The one about Big Brother and all that shit?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, mandatory reading in seventh grade. You aren't seriously comparing America to that bullshit, are you?"

"Well, think about it," he said. "We're the proles, the bottom of the barrel. You're supposed to think that we're the lowest of the low, the dregs of society, just useless pieces of shit not worth noticing, but we're the most free. We get the most, the government practically drenches us in liberties, and we care the least. Then there's your Outer Party, the middle class, and it's supposed to be the majority of society and everyone is equal and respected and hard working, but it's just the one that gets fucked the most. Society is held up by the middle class and they're the ones getting treated like shit. Then there's the Inner Party, and they're just these perfect fuckers who get whatever they want and no one bothers them none. It's like they live in a whole 'nother world."

"I'm still trying to figure out if you're complaining that the government gave your family financial aid, and if so, why."

This time, finally, he heard me. "Because my family is spearheaded by pieces of shit who hustle the government for what they can. They use food stamps to buy shit for other people so those people can pay them in drugs. They sent me and my brother and sister to the doctor's when we weren't sick to get meds to peddle off to people who actually needed them. Did you know the government has tried to set up a law that requires drug testing for welfare applicants?"

"Did they?" I asked, complacently. It sounded like he was starting to lose his train of thought again.

"Yeah. It was shut down because it was unconstitutional. Like the constitution actually says you can't refuse to give money to people who are high."

"Well, I'm sure it doesn't say that-"

"Oh stop, don't even, don't even try to make lack of inclusion an argument. It's pointless."

"Sorry." Again, I'd been intending to make it something of a joke. I suppose he wasn't in the mood. "Well, still, that's a good thing, or else you would have been fucked."

"It's not fucking about me, dude!" He was finally actually looking at me, and I couldn't really tell what it was I saw in his face. It was very stern, very fervid, and he wasn't anywhere near smiling. "People like Stan's folks work their asses off so that people like my folks can do whatever the fuck they want. So I can get free healthcare while they can barely afford to treat their own son. There's no fucking repercussion for being poor except that people grew up in poverty tend to continue to live in and then raise children in poverty. And you just keep being poor and draining money out of other folks. And this whole system is just shit dude, it's just complete shit and it's falling apart and yet all we can think about is how many more soldiers we can fit in planes to send over to Iraq!"

"For one, this is a really Republican way of thinking, and I'm actually really surprised at you." I raised my hand to stop him from sputtering some indignant reply; I actually had a point, and it had nothing to do with party systems. "For another, you would have been in deep shit if you hadn't gotten financial aid. Stan's family is doing fine; maybe they aren't well off, but the fuckers ain't struggling to eat. We're talking you would have been homeless if not for folks like Stan. I know you hate the idea of borrowing and owing people money or asking for help and favors because you got some kinda goddamn pride complex of 'I don't need help,' but you were a kid and you fuckin' needed help. Taking a little from someone like Stan didn't hurt him and it helped you survive. Be fuckin' grateful."

Kenny was just shaking his head, like he just could not accept anything I was saying to be true. "It ain't right," he said, a little sadly. "You should work for what you got. The government's givin' my brother food and meds and money for free 'cause they expect him to kill for them. That's his retribution. Why do they give it to us for for free? Because it's an axe to hang over our fuckin' heads. We can't do anything but vote whichever way will keep our damn welfare. My folks voted Democrat twice even though they're Republican just because those suckers want to keep givin' us free money. When we know we don't deserve it. We have to pay it back somehow. Even the proles ain't really free, Craig."

These days I think back and I wonder exactly what point he was trying to make in the end, and I still wonder how someone who had depended on financial aid his whole life could have such mixed feelings about it.

Even now, the war over welfare continues. Republicans this, Democrats that. Medicaid this and taxes that. American always seemed to be at war, if not with foreign countries, then within its own borders.

I would later come to rely on financial aid myself, for college, and just as Kenny said, I voted for the party that would result in me keeping that aid when the time came.

I didn't know what else that party stood for. I never liked listening to politicians talk; it was always a lot of shit anyway. I may have hated the guy and not even known it.

But he would give me money and that was worth my vote. I was bought out by a promise of money. So when I voted between the two of them, it wasn't even really a choice, was it?

Maybe that was the point Kenny was trying to make. Maybe he was just a shithead teenager who was angry about something and he didn't even know what it was.

Or maybe, like he said, he'd just been talkin'. Just shootin' the shit. I shouldn't think so much into it. We all did a lot of talking back then; we all talked a lot and we never really listened.

Kenny would later make his stance very clear, and I would have no trouble understanding it. His brother was only the beginning, and Kenny didn't need to join an army to fight a war.


	48. Part Five: Surging Forward

Surging Forward

As I promised Tweek some time ago, I had been trying over the past few months to not stray too far away from my friends in favor of Kenny. Not only did I still like being around my friends, but I also didn't want to be one of those guys. Even Clyde managed to spend quite a lot of time with us considering he had a girlfriend. To be fair, Bebe was pretty independent, but it was worth noting.

Anyway, unfortunately, I hadn't really done much with them since New Years. Things kept coming up and whenever I felt like company, for some reason I just kept winding up going to Kenny. So when he blew me off again and made it clear that he was still in whatever funk he was in, I decided to stop being a masochist and use it as an excuse to have a night out with the guys.

Even on something like a "night out" for us, we were very chill, very reserved. Some kids went out and partied and drank themselves stupid and did crazy dangerous stunts and went joyriding; we went to see a movie and then holed up in Denny's for three hours in the middle of the night. All of us got an ample amount of breakfast, excluding Tweek, who had coffee, a chocolate milkshake, and about two baskets of curly fries. He liked fries.

Things were still very much the same with the rest of them. It was kind of astonishing how little was changing in the outside world when things between me and Kenny were moving so rapidly, but then, I reminded myself that, while it seemed like it had been forever, it had only really been three or four months, depending on when you pinpointed the exact start date of whatever it was we were. Kenny had already settled very comfortably into the background, as he usually did, and I often forgot that he had only really just gotten there.

I thought about telling them about Kenny, about how we had finally reached some kind of arrangement and how we weren't dating but we were still sort of together, and I didn't. I kind of wanted to inform them, at least, that I wasn't a virgin anymore, but I didn't. After the reaction to the hickey, I could only imagine how they would respond to an announcement that I'd lost my virginity. So in the end, I just remained quiet and kept to myself, like I always did. At first, anyway. Kenny would later be dragged out in the middle of everything, through the mud, for everyone to see.

We talked about everything we always talked about; new movies and games, local gossip, and complaints about family members, the latter of which usually went on for a good hour while we tried to one up each other.

Eventually, we split a little while Tweek caught me up to speed with new albums that were out, and Token and Clyde talked girlfriend business (they invited me to join them; I declined) while Jimmy sort of dove in and out of our conversations at will. Neither really applied to him, so he amused himself by cracking well-timed jokes in between. Well, mostly well-timed. As usual, they sometimes just fell flat.

For most of the night, we maintained a nice, relaxed atmosphere. We weren't being loud and we were being polite to our waitress, so she didn't mind us staying there after we'd finished eating. Eventually, things started heading into that direction I so dreaded, war talk, when the television in the lobby was tuned to Fox and it began rattling off numbers for the war. And then, of course, everyone had something to say about that, except me.

You'll recall, I mentioned Bush's "New Way Forward" not long ago. 20,000 troops directly into Baghdad and extending the service of many more already stationed there. The UK was talking of pulling out and we just kept surging in, and "surge" was the exact word they used.

A new unit was being shipped over seas once a month, having started in January and ending in May. That time had come again, and Fox, being Fox, was making a big deal out of it. Being me, I hardly noticed.

"What I'm curious about is why exactly they need so much more firepower over there," Token was saying. "All of the units being mobilized are infantry and shit. But we've already established our presence in Iraq, there are no weapons of mass destruction, we got Saddam; what the hell else do we need 20,000 more people there for? It's 2007," he reminded us. "I mean, we're working on 6 years over there. Why are we over there?"

"Stability?" Clyde suggested in the sort of tone that implied he didn't really know either. "'Cause like, we have units stationed in every country we've ever been to war in, right? We've got some in Germany and Korea and Japan..."

"But why do we need MORE soldiers there, that's what I'm wondering. Everyone else is pulling out and we just keep going in."

"Oil," Jimmy said promptly. "There's still a l-lot of oil over there to b-be had."

"You don't send soldiers to collect oil," Token disagreed. "They want more of a presence in Iraq for some reason. Intimidation?"

"Didn't they say we were gonna stay there until we rebuilt everything?" Clyde asked. He was hunched over his Coke and holding onto the straw, sipping from it at will. It was something like his seventh or eighth refill. He didn't seem too perturbed by any of these developments. "Like, everyone was bitching about how everyone just sorta storm troopered in and destroyed everything, so now they were saying that we're there to help rebuild their cities and shit."

"Kinda hard to rebuild anything if they keep blowing it up," Token commented, a little distastefully. As you know, in February, there had been another bomb. A hundred some deaths, three hundred some injuries, more statistics.

Tweek and I were only sort of listening to their conversation, as usual. We were discussing our plans for after everyone else left Denny's. We hadn't hung out at Stark's Pond for a while, and we figured we were overdue for some stargazing. Sitting still for hours and staring at the sky was not Kenny's idea of fun; he was very quickly bored by anything that lasted longer than about twenty minutes. I missed easy company like that.

"I'll just tell Clyde to drop me off at my house," he told me.

"How come?" I asked.

"Oh, I was just gonna grab some rolls. If you aren't into that tonight though-"

"Nah man, I haven't had a blunt since December. I think I could use one tonight."

Normally, he might not have pried. Tonight, he jumped on it. "Anything wrong with Kenny?"

I was agitated, and it showed in my response. "Everyone keeps asking me that thinking that I'm going to say yes for some reason. No, nothing wrong is with him. I just want to chill tonight."

He nodded. "Well, I'll grab my stuff and I'll just meet you at the pond."

"Bring a blanket. There's snow on the ground and I'm not keen on lying in it."

"Will do."

It was about this point when the group suddenly converged again, and it was because Clyde asked me what I thought about the whole "moving forward" thing. They should have known better than to ask my opinion on something so inconsequential to me, I thought, but in the end, it wound up bringing quite a lot to light.

"I really don't care," I said. I seriously doubted that this response was a surprise to anyone. "Like, why else do we even have military if we aren't going to put them somewhere? There's all these guys who are just sitting here in the US and to me it's like, well, if they're going to be serving some form of military contract, then they may as well serve it in Iraq."

All of them sort of exchanged looks. It was kind of confusing to me, but then Token noticed that I was glaring at them, and he explained. "We just think that's an odd stance for you to have on it."

"Why?" I asked. "It hasn't changed."

Clyde answered this time. "It's just, you know, now that you're going out with Kenny now, and Kenny's all deep into that shit."

I knew Kenny had a few beefs with the war, and I said, "Is he?" more in dry sarcasm than sincerity. I think they took it at face value. 

"Yeah man." Token sounded surprised now. I guess he hadn't thought that they'd been telling me anything I didn't know already. "Kenny's always getting into trouble about it, especially lately."

Jimmy concurred. "I have H-history with him," he piped up. "He got in a huge argument w-with our t-teacher over the US's original d-d-de-decision to go into Iraq. He was screaming at her b-by the time she called a d-dean to take him out of cl-class."

"Screaming?" I repeated skeptically. That didn't sound like Kenny; it truly didn't at all. I figured maybe Jimmy was just exaggerating. But he nodded and confirmed:

"At the t-top of his lungs. Man, I never seen him l-lo-look so m-mad."

"That's weird." I didn't really know what else to say. I felt kind of awkward. It was another one of those situations where everyone was just kind of staring at me, and I had nothing to present to them. I hadn't known.

"Well, to his c-credit, she said some p-p-pretty bad things about M-Muslim people in g-ge-general, and the r-rest of the class was agreeing with h-her. I think that's w-what s-set him off. Still, who'd a th-thunk he'd h-have a short f-fu-fuse like that, eh?"

"What was he yelling about?"

"I d-don't remember," he admitted. "It was after we got b-back from the holidays. The usual st-stuff about our society b-being corrupted by g-go-go-...g-g-go-go...gova-va...g-g-go-government propaganda, and whatever nonsense."

"You sure that wasn't Tweek?" Clyde joked, and for the first time, Tweek cut in, very sharply.

"Don't compare me to him." It was all he said.

We were all momentarily surprised by the outburst. I think we all almost asked him what his problem was, but we didn't. We just moved on. That's just what we did.

"We've all sort of just been hearing a lot about him lately," Token explained. "I guess we sort of wondered if he'd converted you yet."

I didn't really appreciate talk like that, and I let them know in a hurry. "Converted me? Converted me to what?"

"Well, you know..." They were all sort of looking at each other, trying to think of the right way to put it. Tweek put it into the words they needed, and he didn't stammer once.

"Converted you into thinking that the US are a bunch of fucking war criminals."

The fact that Tweek used this exact phrasing was what threw me off. Remember, Kenny had only just said this exactly in regards to his brother's pending fate. I thought it was an incredibly odd coincidence until Tweek proved, again, that there was no such thing as coincidences.

"I started talking politics to him last year," he said. "Right b-before he started sitting down in class during the Pledge."

I was just astonished. I didn't even know Tweek and Kenny even talked to each other, let alone before Kenny had become a part of my life. "You did?" I said dumbly. Now it wasn't just my not-boyfriend we were talking about, but also one of my best friends. And I'd had no idea.

"Yeah. You know how they always h-have those mass mourning things for 9/11 on the anniversaries? My p-parents always drag me to them, and I was bored and Kenny was there. He was saying some stuff I k-kinda agreed with."

"Like what?" I asked, and all the others were leaning in too. This was obviously the first time they'd heard any of this, and with Kenny being such a hot topic at the moment, it interested them. But it made Tweek nervous; he started stuttering more, staring down at his coffee more intently. He hated to be the center of attention more than I did.

"Ah, well, I told him I k-kinda believed all those v-videos about, you know, 9/11 being an inside j-job or at least anticipated b-by the US and stuff, and usually p-people blow me off and just say I'm g-gullible, but he listened, and he t-talked to me about it, and then he started t-talking about, ngh..." He cut himself off and twitched violently and he needed a minute to get himself together. "Ah, f-fuck, I can't remember everything he said," he admitted. Personally, I think he was just saying this to get out of the spotlight. "But it was bad, real bad stuff about the B-Bushes and you know, their 'new world order' in D-Desert Storm and numbers of d-d-deaths and stuff and comparing it to sys-systematic g-g-genocide."

We all silently absorbed this for a few seconds. Then, just to be clear, I repeated, "He's comparing this war to genocide?"

"He had a lot of f-figures and numbers and stuff," he mumbled. His fingers were rapidly tapping the sides of his coffee mug and his leg was shaking the whole table. "I d-don't remember them. He said b-by 2020 we'd own all the oil in the M-Middle East and we'd b-buy it with the p-price of b-b-blood."

"That's ridiculous," Clyde finally spoke up. Clyde usually wasn't one to get really involved in discussions like this; he'd throw in his two cents now and then, but he didn't normally get involved, not like emotional about it. "Don't tell me you believe that shit? That you actually think the war on terror is actually some kind of invasion?"

"I don't know what to believe," Tweek answered in a very meek voice, more into his coffee cup than to Clyde. "B-but the way they're phrasing everything, you know, 'new world order,' 'surging forward...'"

Clyde was having none of it. "Look, Kenny's just talking a lot of shit about stuff he doesn't know about to scare people. This is America; we're the most powerful country in the world. We aren't trying to take over the Middle East, the Bushes aren't some new and improved Hitler, and this new thing they're doing isn't a hostile takeover of Iraq, alright?"

"Then what is it?" he asked. It wasn't really like a challenge, he didn't sound impudent about it, but still, we all felt the tension tighten between the two of them.

Token interjected before anything could become an argument. "Tweek, why did you stop talking to Kenny? What did he say?"

"He just, he just sort of scared me, I guess." His leg was bouncing so hard we could see his cup vibrating in his hands. He lifted it an inch or two, as if to take a sip, but his hands were shaking so hard that he thought better of it and put it back down. He continued to speak in that grinding voice, like his words were being squeezed through a cheese grater. "I k-kinda agreed with what he was saying at first, but b-by late October he s-started g-getting more into it and he was saying s-stuff that was just...it was crazy, man, it was totally loco."

"Surprised you didn't just buy it," Clyde muttered.

Tweek finally looked up from his coffee and glared at Clyde, and he snapped at him, "Just because I can be p-paranoid doesn't mean I'm fucking stupid!"

Out of nowhere, a sentence casually drifted by from Catch-22, something I'd subconsciously tucked into the back of my mind, I think because it reminded me of Tweek: "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't after you."

This time, Jimmy decided to come between them. "I d-d-don't blame ya, Tweek. Kenny's a nice guy, b-but he says st-stuff that's p-pretty fa-fa-fa-f...fa-far-fa...f-f-fa-farfetched sometimes."

"That's why, after the bridge..." Tweek had resumed staring at his coffee to avoid eye contact. I saw him shudder. "I thought...I thought Kenny was after me, 'cause he thought I'd b-b-betrayed him or something..."

"Can we just stop all of this?" I said loudly. I think everyone had sort of forgotten I was there at that point; all eyes had been on Tweek for too long, everyone had gotten so into the fact that Tweek had had minimal history with Kenny that they forgot that I currently ongoing history with him. "Guys, Kenny is just a normal guy. He's not secretly out to get you, Tweek," I said, directly to him, and then I turned to Clyde. "He doesn't think Bush is a new Hitler, either. He just opposes the war. Big fucking deal. Lots of people do. Can we not turn him into some psychotic freak over it?"

"That's not what we're doing," Token interjected. "We just think his opinions are kind of weird."

"You think his opinions are weird because you don't agree with them. Clyde thinks you're crazy because you don't like Will Ferrell, we all think Clyde's crazy because he has like eight posters of Cate Blanchett in his room, and we all think Tweek's fucking crazy because insert reason here. When people think differently from you, you think that's not normal, so now you're all just amplifying all of this small shit about Kenny being against the war and turning him into this nefarious anarchistic villain or some shit. Jesus fucking Christ, is this really so hard?"

I rarely rant, I rarely shout, and I rarely go off on a tangent. All four of my friends, including Tweek, were staring at me with shock plainly evident on their faces.

"Damn dude," Clyde whistled. "When did you get so defensive all of a sudden?"

"I'm not being defensive," I said in a tone that was blatantly defensive.

"Hey, we know he's your boyfriend and all-"

"He's not my boyfriend," I rebuked hotly, banging my fist on the table in response. I was frustrated; I couldn't help it. Everyone (barring Tweek) collectively rolled their eyes at me, and that pissed me off even more.

Jimmy decided to interject next. "Craig, whether or n-not you think K-Kenny is loco like Tweek s-says, you g-gotta admit, you're b-being pretty defensive about him, and it is p-probably due to you being in s-s-s-s-some kind of re-re-re-relationship with him, whatever you w-w-want to c-call it."

It made perfect sense, it was totally rational, and I denied it immediately. "If I'd seen anything you guys were talking about, I would have said something by now. I talk to him almost every day; you guys have barely even spoken to him. I can count the times he's brought up war shit on one hand. The reason I'm so pissed off is because you just keep disregarding me."

"We aren't disregarding you, Craig," Clyde reproached.

"Yes you are!"

I think Token had had enough of it. Now that I was getting hot under the collar after the narrowly avoided Clyde vs Tweek fiasco, I think he finally realized that this was all starting to get out of hand, and it also wasn't going anywhere productive. He rose and held out his hands, one palm facing Clyde and one facing me and Tweek. When he spoke, he tried to direct his words to everyone at the table, but I couldn't help but feel like he kept intentionally targeting me. "Guys, let's not fight over this, okay? This is ridiculous; when do we ever fight over anything?"

Clyde and I both tried talking at the same time.

"They're saying-"

"He's insinuating-!"

"Just can it, alright?" he firmly interrupted both of us, keeping both of his hands firmly in place. "We all disagree, can we agree with that?" Vague mumbling was passed around the table. "And, look, you guys all know I'm a busybody if you ever saw one, but the truth is we all have different sides. I've never personally heard or seen any of this shit from Kenny, Craig says he hasn't, Tweek and Jimmy say they have, Clyde, have you ever actually seen or heard any of this shit?"

Clyde mumbled sort of ineffectively, pretty much admitting that he hadn't.

"Alright, so, who knows. Like the last we heard of all this happening was, what, October?" he asked Tweek, who nodded. "And January?" Jimmy nodded too. "Maybe he's cooled his jets, maybe he was just pissed off about something else and just blowing smoke. God knows the guy has a fucked up life and he probably needs to blow smoke sometimes."

There was no dissension about this. Everyone knew what Kenny's home life was like. We knew, we just tried to forget, because where we raised, one of the worst things you could do to someone was pity them.

Jimmy spoke up, addressing everyone. "I'm sorry, I th-think I sort of s-started all of this. I shouldn't have b-brought it up."

"It's cool," I muttered, and Clyde and Tweek said the same. With the fire put out, Token sat down again.

Our waitress was suddenly pretty eager to get rid of us, (I guess we'd gotten a little rowdier than we should have) and she started passing out the checks for everyone. We all started pulling out our wallets, (it was a strict rule that we never covered each others meals) and then we heard Clyde grumbling.

"Oh, shit, fucking shit..."

"What?" we all asked, in some form or another. It took a while for him to admit what the problem was.

"I don't have enough cash," he admitted. He had a hand over his face and he was leaning into the table on it. "Fuck me, I forgot I had to get gas earlier this afternoon and I put a twenty in the tank. I can't believe I fucking forgot."

Token stepped up immediately. "Just put it on my card."

"No way, I don't want to have to ask the waitress to bring another check. She's already pissed off."

"It's not a big deal. You can just give me whatever you have and I'll just cover the rest."

"Dude, I only have like three dollars..."

"Then I'll cover it, it's fine. I'll ask the waitress to just combine our bills."

Clyde continued to reject this charity (despite the fact that he had no other way of paying for his food) and Token continued to insist that he stop being so stubborn when all at once, a few bills just magically flew onto the table. A five, a ten, some singles; all of it was probably a little over twenty bucks, which was Clyde's bill plus tip.

"Take it," Tweek told him.

"It's no better having you pay for it than him-"

"Take it," he said again, no more insistent than the first time.

Clyde did take it all up and put it with his check, and though he wouldn't look at Tweek, (which was just as well, because Tweek wouldn't look at him either) he did say, "Thanks kid. You're alright."

"No problem."

"Sorry I got all horn-mad on you. It just kinda pisses me off when people start saying shit like that. It's not right; what the hell else are you supposed to believe in if you can't even trust your own country?"

Tweek just sort of shakily nodded. "Yeah, I guess."

"Where'd you get loaded all of a sudden?" I asked Tweek privately when our checks were being taken up.

Tweek just shrugged. "You've been busy, so I've been doing more business."

It's noteworthy for me to point out that, if he had any, Tweek would carry cash on him at all times. He didn't trust banks, ATMs, debit cards, credit cards, checks, or anything other than cold hard cash. The only currency he could trust was dollar bills in his hand. Later on, it wouldn't be so unusual for him to carry several hundred dollars on him at once, all stashed in any one of a dozen places on his person.

I mention this because it's relevant. I probably don't even need to point this out anymore, but I am, just the same.

Later, Clyde dropped of all off one by one. Tweek gave me a significant nod as he left The Car, and I almost didn't catch it. The virulent whirlwind that had swept through our table had almost blown it clear out of my mind. But I remembered in time, and I nodded back. When I was the only one left, I crawled up front with Clyde, and I asked him to take me to the pond.

"At this time of night?"

"Yeah man, I'm meeting Tweek later. We haven't done some stargazing in a while."

Clyde rolled his eyes. "Dude, it's two o'clock in the morning."

"And?"

He just shook his head and shifted gears and drove off. We didn't say anything for a while, and we just let the radio fend off the silence for us. Stark's Pond wasn't a very long drive, though, and as it turned out, Clyde had plenty to say in the short time we had.

"I'm sorry to you too," he said.

"For what?" As you know by now, I hate apologies.

He understood and he nodded. "So, how are things with Kenny? You don't talk about him a lot."

I sighed, less agitated but still just slightly peeved. "Fine." I never really went into any more detail than that, which was probably what irritated Clyde in the first place.

"So he doesn't, I mean, does he ever, like, you know..."

"Flip his lid and start raving about peace in the Middle East?" I offered, guessing his intentions.

Clyde's reply sounded a little sheepish. "Well, I mean, I don't know."

"He just believes strongly in what he thinks." I shrugged; I didn't think it was really all that much of a flaw. "Yeah, he has strong opinions on the war. No, he doesn't go nuclear about it all the time. He hardly ever even talks about it. I've never even seen him shout before, so what Jimmy said really threw me off."

"Alright." He seemed a little relieved by my answer, but I still noticed he was gripping the steering wheel a little harder than he should have been. He obviously wasn't done. "You know, I know it's probably none of my business, but-"

"It's not," I interrupted. He didn't continue until I gave him the say-so. "But since you're going to say it anyway..."

"I'm not sure you should be going with that guy," he confessed. "He kinda makes me nervous. He seems like bad news, dude."

"You kept telling me that about Tweek and now you're telling me this about Kenny. Jealous, Clyde?" I teased, and his ears went red.

"Well, frankly, I'm not thrilled about dropping you off into his company either," he rebuked. "Lemme guess, Tweek wanted to grab his weed before he met you out there."

I shrugged and dodged his question a little. "Is there anything wrong with smoking?"

"No, but-"

"It's safer than cigarettes. Healthier, too. Cheaper."

"It's illegal."

"You've smoked before, Clyde. Don't turn all high and mighty on me all of a sudden just because Bebe won't let you smoke."

It was a guess, just a shot in the dark, but the rest of his face instantly matched his ears, and I'm pretty sure I hit the nail on the head. "Well, people can change their opinions," he said stubbornly. "But my opinion hasn't changed; I've just added onto it. Yeah I think Tweek's bad news, but I know he ain't gonna hurt you. I worry he'll accidentally get you in trouble, but he won't hurt anyone. But man, Kenny's worse news than Tweek all day long from what I'm hearing."

"You're the one who told me to go with my gut, and my gut says he's fine."

"Yeah, and my gut says otherwise. Did he tell you about all the trouble he's been getting in because of his bullheadedness over politics?"

"No, but-"

"Did he tell you that he and Bill Allen got in a fistfight the other day over whether or not we were justified in invading Iraq and Afghanistan because of 9/11?"

"No..."

"Kevin Stoley has Economics with him," Clyde said. "Did he tell you he was this fucking close-" He held his thumb and forefinger together, not far enough for a sheet of paper to slip in between. "-from getting suspended a few weeks ago because he called their teacher a warmongering whore? And he laughed in her face and said she was delusional when she said she thought Bush was doing what needed to be done for the good of our country, and that she was fucking batshit insane if she thought that all of the money we've burned on the war is really helping our economy here."

Anecdotes. I hated anecdotes. Keep this in mind, because it's going to come up again, and my tolerance for them will not increase. I do not want stories. I want pure facts. I do not want emotionally charged recollections. I want information. Please remember this.

"Look," I said impatiently, cutting him off before he could bring up anything else that might have occurred without my knowledge. "None of that stuff matters to me. I don't care. I don't tell Kenny about every aspect of my life, and I don't expect him to tell me every little thing about his."

"Dude." Clyde sounded incredulous, and his next few words were slow, purposeful. "The guy is lying to you."

"He's not lying to me," I snapped. Clyde backed off while I collected myself, and I tried to rationalize his behavior without sounding like I was condoning it. "He knows I don't care. I've told him time and time again that I don't care about that stuff, so he doesn't bring it up around me. That doesn't mean he's lying. If I asked, he would tell me. But he knows I'm not interested in his little conscientious bullshit, so he knows better than to waste my time talking to me about it."

"But then why don't you just ask?"

"Because I don't care," I repeated.

Clyde just sighed. He seemed deflated and exhausted, and he was clearly tired of arguing with me about all of this. We would be at the pond momentarily, and we both knew he didn't have a lot of time to convince me of anything. "Craig, listen, I'm just worried about you, okay? I don't know how far this guy will escalate when he gets pissed off. The fact that none of this bothers you, like you're defending him-"

"I'm not defending him. If he really did do all of that stuff, then he's a fucking moron and I'll be sure to tell him so later. But I don't know because I haven't heard his side. What, do you think he's crazy or something just because he's passionate about the war?"

"Not crazy," Clyde corrected uncertainly. He chewed his bottom lip; I don't think he really knew what to make of Kenny other than his gut instinct telling him he was up to no good, and that gut instinct probably came more from years of living in a conservative mountain town rather than any logical judgment. "You know, maybe he's kinda dangerous or something."

"Dangerous?" I almost laughed as I said it. Kenny McCormick was not dangerous.

"Well, maybe..."

"Kenny's not a danger to anyone. If you knew him for five minutes, you'd know that."

"See, this is why I'm so concerned," Clyde huffed. "Usually you're all objective about this sorta stuff, now you just..."

"Don't care?" I suggested. Clyde didn't respond. "Look, I'll ask him, alright?"

Clyde glanced over at me with disbelief all over his face. "You will?"

"Yeah, I'll ask him straight out the next time I see him."

"And what if it's all true?" Clyde challenged me. "You gonna stop dating him if it turns out I'm right and he is bad news?"

Here, I paused and thought for a moment. Clyde quickly grew impatient. "Well?"

"We're not really dating, though," I started, and Clyde interrupted me with a deep sigh.

"Craig, don't even play like that. Let me guess: you still haven't kissed him yet, either."

Again, I was silent. Ordinarily, Clyde might have made a fuss over it and teased me relentlessly, but he didn't.

"I just really hate to think of you getting hurt because of this wackjob, that's all. And Tweek's worried about you too," he added, like maybe thatmight convince me if nothing else did.

"What's up with Tweek?" I asked. "I haven't been hanging around him enough. He's been kinda short-tempered lately."

"I suspect you'll find out soon enough," he said. He'd stopped the car; we were at the pond. It was empty and lonesome in the night. "Can you just...promise, like, he's not worth it." His sentence was all jumbled up; I think he was having trouble organizing it in his head. "Just..."

"Don't worry about me," I assured him. "I just wish everyone would stop worrying about me all the time. I am fine. There is nothing wrong. If there were something wrong, I wouldn't pretend that there wasn't. That's just not me. You'd think everyone would just fucking know this by now."

"Alright," he acquiesced. He didn't sound terribly convinced.

I stepped out of The Car and waved goodbye to him, and then I bundled up in my jacket and waited for Tweek. In the middle of April, we might have at least started seeing a suggestion of spring, but we were in the Colorado Rockies, and we'd just had a nice fat load of snow dumped on us instead. It was loose and undisturbed around the pond, save for the tire tracks Clyde had left behind. While I waited, I paced in the snow, and my mind paced even faster.

The truth is that a part of me was scared to ask Kenny about what made him tick. I'd really only known the guy for four months; I mean, sure, we've known each other since we were kids, but known him for four months. Talked to him, learned things about him. And I couldn't deny that there were some times that it seemed like Kenny really was trying to keep things from me, and, thinking about it, there had been times he had blatantly blown me off, like he'd had plans he hadn't wanted me to know about.

I realized that there was quite a lot about Kenny that I did not know. As always, he remained frustratingly elusive, and he would continue to be up until the very end, only stringing me just enough information to keep me interested until I had enough to hang myself.


	49. Part Five: The Final Solution

The Final Solution

It took Tweek almost twenty minutes after that to arrive, but he came bearing thermoses of coffee (it had cooled a bit in the journey, but it was a good deal warmer than what I was feeling at that point) and not just a thick blanket to lie on top of the snow with, but an extra jacket, which I happily slipped into on top of my other clothes. It was warm and well insulated, and just that quick, though I'd been cursing his tardiness and the fact that he always seemed to pick the worst possible nights to do anything, Tweek was suddenly my hero.

Thus, it was not quite three in the morning when we settled down, flat on our backs, and we both sighed contentedly. Sure it was late, sure it was cold, but there was nothing quite like just escaping into the middle of nowhere and staring at the stars. I really needed that. With all the thinking I was doing lately, I just really needed an escape.

We didn't say much. We never needed to. Every now and then we might point out our favorite constellations, but it wasn't really necessary. We both already knew where they were anyway. 

We waited until we were absolutely freezing before breaking out the joints so that they could warm us up. The blanket was just large enough to fold over top of us, and after we'd lit up, that's exactly what we did. I yearned for a pillow, but instead I just curled my arm under my head and used that instead. We both had our own joint, and we just quietly smoked and stared, and then we started talking. 

It didn't really have a purpose, at first. Our conversation was just sort of like a shotgun blast, just going off everywhere, hitting a little bit of everything. Aliens were one of our favorite topics, and yes, given all that you know about me, you should think that I was entirely disinterested in something that we might never be able to prove, but I liked talking about it just the same. There was a small dose of philosophy, (Kenny wondered where I got it from since it didn't seem to be the sort of thing I'd normally be interested in; I still hadn't told him that Tweek was probably more into metaphysics than he was) and then there was the normal stuff. Complaining about parents, bitching about school work, wondering when the damn snow would clear up this year. 

It took a while, but I knew it would happen. Long after our joints had been burned out and we were both just soaring in those stars and our tongues were nice and loose, it began.

"I really want you to tell me something."

"Mmhmm?" I mumbled noncommittally. At the time, I was starting to doze a little; it was late, probably less than an hour away from sunrise. I might have been content to just roll over and zonk out if he'd let me.

"What is it about you and Kenny?" he asked.

Predictable, should've known, should've told him not to even bother asking. "I don't know," I said.

"Don't give me that again," he sighed shortly. "I just...I don't know."

"You see bad news in him too, huh?"

"What?" He sounded genuinely confused, so I explained.

"Like, Clyde was all, 'he's bad news Craig,' after you guys left, and he's all pissed off and shit because of whatever." Mind you, I was terrifically stoned at this point and my ability to produce speech was suffering as a result.

"Ah, fuck him. Clyde doesn't like me or him anyway."

Now it was my turn to be surprised. "Who said Clyde doesn't like you?"

Either the dryness in his mouth rubbed off on his speech, or he didn't seem to find my question very humorous. "I know."

"Whatever man, think what you want." I might have done him a favor by just telling him flat out my opinion on the subject, (that being that, no, Clyde didn't really care for him) but I wasn't feeling courteous, especially because my private relationship kept getting infringed upon, and it continued to be.

"But about Kenny," he nudged.

"What about him?" I asked. "He don't rant and rave about the war or do crazy shit or yell 'n scream or whatever. He's just a regular guy. Fuckin' beats me where y'all get all that shit from."

Tweek ignored me. He obviously had a plan where he was going with this, and the pot didn't seem to be interfering with it. "Y'know, I hung out with Kenny sometimes."

"Did you?" I wasn't too surprised. As I mentioned before, Tweek and I had fallen out once or twice, and when that happened he usually migrated over towards Kenny's brood.

"He's a weird guy," he said, and I just couldn't even muster the strength to comment that Tweek was pretty fucking weird, too. "He talks funny things sometimes."

"Like what?" I asked.

"I don't know. It's hard to explain."

"Well, give it a shot," I yawned. "It's not like I got anywhere to be."

"He like, he talks about death a lot."

"Yeah?" Kenny had yet to bring up anything regarding death around me, but maybe he thought I'd be freaked out by it. "Like those goth freaks who are all like, 'the end is nigh' and all that bullshit?"

"No, not like that," he corrected me. He thought about it, licking his lips in the cold and staring intently up at the stars, like he was trying to read in them what it was he was trying to say. In the end, I think, he knew exactly what he wanted to say; he just wasn't sure if he should say it, if saying it was even allowed. "He talked about wanting to kill himself, sometimes."

"Kill himself?" I repeated. This partially startled me out of my pleasant little buzz, and I pushed my upper body up on my forearm, looking over at him. "Kenny said he wanted to kill himself?"

"He tried to do it, I think," Tweek confided in me. "I don't know how close he ever got. He failed, obviously."

"Dude, how long ago was this?" I asked urgently. I guess maybe I was afraid that maybe Kenny had blown me off because he was in some suicidal stupor or something, but Tweek quelled those worries immediately.

"I dunno. Like a year and a half, two years maybe."

I relaxed a little. "He hasn't said anything about it since?"

"Not to me," he said. "I wonder if maybe that's why he goes so far with this political bullshit, because like, he thinks that's his only purpose or something. Something really changed for him at some point, I dunno what the fuck it was."

I laid back down, staring wide-eyed at the sky and letting it process in my slow-moving brain. I couldn't even believe it; the Kenny I knew abhorred a senselessly wasted life like that, he was always scorning Stan's behavior, saying that he couldn't stand self-destruction like that, and either he was a hypocrite or he knew exactly where he was coming from. Maybe that's why he was so critical of it; maybe it was just because he'd been there himself.

"Does it really shock you that bad?" he was glancing over at me, curiously, and I realized I had my mouth wide open too. I closed it.

"Well, yeah," I answered. "I mean, people don't want to kill themselves a lot."

"I've thought about it," he mentioned casually.

Fucking talk about a sucker punch; first Kenny, now him. "What the fuck, man?" I demanded; I was leaning up again. "Are you kidding me right now?"

"No? I obviously haven't done it either, have I?"

"Have you tried?"

"Nope," he said. At first I thought maybe he said it too quickly, too casually, but before I could call him on it, he continued. "I swear, I really haven't. I just think about it sometimes, a lot sometimes. I'd never actually do it, though."

"Why?" I felt so totally helpless, but for some reason, I didn't really feel that upset. Either it was my usual apathy shining through or the weed had numbed my empathy somehow, but while I was concerned, while I was worried about him doing it, I wasn't really as anguished as I probably should have been.

That still haunts me, you know. The fact that, right before it all went to shit, Tweek was telling me, straight up, that suicide was a frequent visitor in his thoughts. That it didn't bother him. That he was so casual about it. The fact that I never told anyone what he'd said. The fact that, after I ruined everything, he simply disappeared, and I wondered.

"I think it's normal," he commented. "I mean, maybe I just think that because I think about it so much, but I think it's healthy to think about it sometimes."

"Healthy?" I repeated as incredulously as possible.

"Be honest, seriously honest. Have you ever, at least once in your life, even just for a moment, wanted to kill yourself?"

"Sure," I said. "But it never actually stuck around, it always went away like immediately."

"See? That's all it is, just a brief little thought that pops in your head. But people put this big stigma on it and make you think you're crazy. You don't think I'm crazy, do you?"

I hesitated a second before saying, "Of course not." I don't think he noticed.

"You know why I know that I'm okay? Because I know I'm not going to do it. It's come up enough in my head and I've said no enough that I know I'm not going to, because I'm not weak like that. People who kill themselves are weak. They're just weak," he spat, and I knew he was serious. That was why he didn't take his pills when he probably should have; because he thought it made him weak. "And that's why they kill themselves; it's just natural selection weeding out the weak. Kenny, though..."

"You think he's weak because he's actually tried?" I asked.

Tweek just shook his head. "Not exactly. I mean, remember when I said a minute ago that like, Kenny redirected himself? He was suicidal and now he's all pumped up on this political shit?"

"He found something to distract himself," I reasoned. "Something that gave him a purpose."

"I don't know if that's what it was, man," he muttered. He wasn't looking anywhere near me; his head was up in space somewhere. "When people want to die, they just direct all of their energy into dying. When there's nothing left to live for, they stop living. I think this is the route Kenny's taking to kill himself. I don't think he's going to stop until he's dead. I think he expects that in the end, this is going to kill him."

His words trailed off into silence that surrounded us like the snow piled on the ground, abundant and heavy. And I took advantage of that silence to think long and hard, and finally, I rebuked him.

"Kenny isn't trying to kill himself with a political agenda."

"You don't think so?" Tweek asked. His head had flopped towards me, nonchalantly. We may as well have been talking about the snow clearing up for all the concern he showed.

"No. He's...you don't understand. You only talked to him about politics, so that's all you've seen of him. I've seen a lot more. He's not vying for some final solution or something."

"I hope not," he replied, and his head flopped back again, skyward. "I know you love him a lot and it'd make you sad."

I felt a sudden rush of cold blast through me. I couldn't correct him fast enough. "I don't love him."

"Well, you care about him, at any rate," he answered. "Maybe that's the other reason he hasn't done it yet; maybe he cares about you too much."

We stared at the stars until dawn soaked them in light, and then we simply packed up and left. Tweek didn't say anything else about Kenny.

I was still high, I was tired, and I was worried, and the combination of the three lead to some very fitful sleep that morning.


	50. Part Five: A Smile Made of Pure Sunlight

A Smile Made of Pure Sunlight

Kenny finally pulled himself out of his little slump by mid-April, and all at once he was right back to his stupid grinning self, teasing me all the time and propositioning me too much. I noticed no more anti-war fervor from him than usual.

Despite my confident assurance to Clyde, I hadn't yet addressed all of the new information that had been disclosed to me over the weekend. I told myself that it was because I didn't want to push him. If Tweek was right and Kenny had once been suicidal, and if Clyde was right and he had the potential to be dangerous, then I thought it would be especially unwise to dump all of this on him at a time I knew he would probably be the most unstable.

I kept it in mind, though. I wasn't too concerned, because I knew everything, and I knew that Kenny wasn't a bad kid, and I knew that he wasn't crazy. But I kept it in mind.

It's not because I didn't care. Sure I was concerned, sure I was wondering about it, but I was just waiting for the right time, that's all.

I would ask him eventually. Maybe in May, I decided complacently. I'd ask. I would.

For once, we were holed up in my attic rather than his deplorable bed. It was a lot warmer than it usually was, and this was probably either due to the pending spring or because Kenny and I were fucking ourselves stupid on my mattress. One nice thing about having a bed that is nothing more than a mattress thrown on the ground: no frame and no headboard means no unwanted squeaking.

"Aw yeah," he was breathing into his arm. We were on our sides, spooning, and I was behind him, keeping a nice, steady, relentless pace, which is harder than it sounds in the position we were in, by the way. Kenny was very vocal; that was something of a flaw of his. "Aww yeah, just like that."

"Shut up," I told him.

"Fuck you," he quipped back, partly in a snide tone and partly in that breathless arousal. My arm was under his head, and he laid down on it, lifting his leg a little higher, making access a little easier, and also resulting in his hard on bouncing comically on his stomach. He was intentionally not touching it; it was a thing he did sometimes. "Oh fuck yeah, that feels fucking good..."

I couldn't blame him; it did feel good, really fucking good, and I reached down under his thigh and pulled his leg up a little more, and at first I had to slow down, all of a sudden the angle was all off, I was going way too deep, and then he just smoothly moaned and gripped onto the sheets.

"Oh shit." He was practically whimpering, and that's when I didn't mind him being vocal. That's when it just shot little pleasure bolts all the way from my brain to my dick and I just loved it. "Fuck me, come on, fuck me-

Spot made a loud squeal from his cage, and Kenny interrupted himself, making some sort of confused hybrid between a groan and a laugh. Kenny was always laughing, even during sex.

"Shut up," I growled at him again. I was breathing heavy too; not because I was tired yet, but because he was clenching down on me and squeezing rhythmically and it was hot, it was fucking tight and hot as fuck, and I wanted to cum so bad, and just hearing his voice was starting to push me. "Roll over."

Rather than be smart with me in return, he lifted up and pulled away until I slipped out, and we both sighed longingly. Then, I backed off just enough for him to flop over onto his stomach. He bunched up my pillow in his arms and he rest his chin on it, but he wouldn't use it to muffle his moans. Not only was he inconsiderate like that, but he liked making noise, because he said he knew it embarrassed me. "Come at me," he dared me, waving his butt suggestively.

"If you insist."

He was already loose and wet because I'd been fucking him nice and slow before, just taking my sweet time, and it felt so good to slide back in between his ass cheeks that it took quite a lot of self-control to not just lose it then and there. I had before, and I knew I couldn't again. He would tease me mercilessly.

When I steadied myself, I took hold of his hips and fucked him until he clutched the pillow and cried shamelessly at my ceiling and he started thrusting back into me, meeting me as I rammed into him while he begged me don't stop, don't stop, fuck him harder, oh god he was gonna fuckin'explode, for fuck's sake, harder, and I was clutching his hips so tightly I vaguely wondered if he would bruise, and then he let out a particularly throaty moan and that did it for me; I couldn't help it. I nearly fell on top of him and he held me up while I pulled him onto me and I released deep into him, (we hadn't had a condom, and by then we'd stopped caring) and I could hear the slick squeegeeing of his hand working at his cock with a purpose until he clenched down on me and he (inconsiderately) squirt all over my fucking bed and he groaned my name, and then his arms gave out and we both went tumbling onto my mattress, and Christ, he was so hot. I kept holding onto him as tight as I could, and I refused to slip out of him until it was inevitable, until I was totally soft and we were both went limp, totally out of it.

We laid there in blissful silence for a few minutes until Kenny snickered into my neck. I could feel him grinning into my skin. As always, my inquiry was short.

"What?"

"Nothin'." He hugged me close and rubbed his nose against my cheek, affectionately. Then he added, almost off-hand, "I was just thinkin', I was about to say I'm plumb tuckered after that." Then he nudged my side and snickered again. "Tuckered. Geddit?"

He was smiling that infuriating little smile of his, like he just thought he was the cleverest person in the world, and I couldn't help but wonder if he was really as content as he seemed, if underneath that endearing face could really lie an entirely different Kenny.

And then I also thought, there was no way anyone could fake a smile like that. The look on his face was just radiant, like pure sunlight. It made my heart glow and my cheeks burn. I didn't think there could possibly be anything wrong with someone who could smile like that.

So I gently backhanded the side of his head and said, "Perv." But I was smiling too.


	51. Part Six: The World

Part Six

The World

_Stuff your eyes with wonder, he said, live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories._

_..._

_We need not to be let alone. We need to be really bothered once in a while. How long is it since you were really bothered? About something important, about something real?_

Ray Bradbury (Fahrenheit 451)


	52. Part Six: Comfort Zone

Comfort Zone

As I emerge further and further from my comfort zone, you'll see that I begin doing and saying things that are quite unlike me. It doesn't really start in this section, not yet, but you'll soon see how it starts. You'll also see how a few other things begin unraveling here, things that won't really become undone until later, though you can see the fraying edges slowly whittling away in the mean time. Things like my relationship with my friends, (notably Tweek) my abject faith in Kenny, (which will regularly, dutifully be tested) and even my very identity, the very person I called 'Craig.'

We're about half-way through this recollection, and as we were at the beginning, we find ourselves on the verge of another threshold: the threshold of the apocalypse. We knew it was coming; that wretched clock has been pointing at midnight for some time now. In the future, (no longer quite so distant as it was when we first began) the bell will be tolling, mocking us with every resounding clang that our time is up, that we have lost, that the end is nigh, and being me, I'll still be trying to convince the world that I'm completely deaf to it, that I give fuck all about any of it.

There are, however, a few more things I need to address before we dive headfirst. I think I have just enough relevant information left to stretch it out for you. I'm sure you're wondering about a few of the things that happen in between now and the apocalypse, and the truth is that I'm wondering too. You'll recall me saying that I had taken a leap of faith and that it had been an extremely long fall, but sometimes I wonder if maybe there had been a break somewhere, some platform or something I had missed along the way that I could have used to catch myself. Even now, all this time later, I wonder.

Maybe you'll be a little more astute than me, but just in case you aren't, let's work on getting to the bottom of things, bad news, good business, setting things right, blind jabs, and the bemused wondering of a vagabond

Here, we finish laying the foundations of the world. The next time around, we destroy it.)


	53. Part Six:Getting to the Bottom of Things

Getting to the Bottom of Things

On May 1st, a riot spun out of control on the streets of Los Angeles. The riot was protesting the treatment of immigrants, especially illegal immigrants, of which there were a sizable amount in California. The protestors grew violent and police responded with violence- the protestors threw rocks and glass bottles and the police used batons and rubber bullets. No one was killed, but thirty some people were injured, including several members of the media who weren't even directly involved.

This is just one example of what is called a May Day riot, a protest taking place on May 1st, May Day. Evidently, it was a common thing to hold a protest on this day, maybe because it was metaphorical, a distress signal, begging someone to acknowledge their movement and help them.

I didn't know any of this. I was too busy dealing with my own problems to worry about Los Angeles, and my problems all seemed to be about Kenny.

It was about a week and a half before the beginning of May. Kenny had inexplicably fallen back into a funk again. He blew me off for the rest of the week, said he had "things to do."

"What things?" I asked my phone stubbornly. I was hiding in the back room of the pet store; my manager was usually pretty easygoing about what I did on shift, but he'd quickly grown exasperated with my constant love affair with my iPhone.

"Just, you know, things," he said, equally as stubbornly. "It's not a big deal, don't get all cranky on me. We can hang out some other time."

"I'm not getting cranky," I reproached him. I was cranky, and it's because I was starting to get anxious. Suddenly, everything Kenny did pointed to some sort of secret double life, or hinted to some sort of deep abyss of depression. I could sorta understand Tweek's constant anxiety now; when you were expecting the worst, everything seemed to be a sign of disaster.

I still hadn't talked to Kenny yet, not like I'd said I would. I hadn't really needed to; he'd been okay for a while. Two good weeks. Now he was right back into his funk and it seemed too soon from the last time; too soon. And I worried.

Kenny just sighed; I could hear it pour softly into my ear. "Look, you at work now?"

"Yeah," I said. "Another two hours. I can't get away."

"I'll come in for a few minutes to talk to you. Will that make you feel better?"

I didn't like the patronizing tone in his voice, like he was just patiently acquiescing to an unreasonable demand of mine to avoid a fight, like he was just placating a child that was throwing a temper tantrum. It pissed me off, and the only time I said things I didn't mean were when I was pissed off. "You can shove it," I said coldly. "That'll make me feel better." And I hung up, and was instantly assaulted by guilt for saying it. What if he took it the wrong way? What if he thought I meant I didn't want him around anymore, or worse?

I didn't used to be so conscious of how I spoke to people or how they would interpret my words. I said often enough that I meant exactly what I said, and I didn't care how people interpreted it. Now all I could do was sit there in the back room, my face buried in my hands, worrying. Wondering. It pissed me off even more that I was worried over something so stupid. I needed to just do what I always did: just come right out and say what I thought. That had never failed me before. I just had to stop being such a pussy and just talk to him, that's all.

And yet I was sitting there telling myself that instead of just telling him.

Once I composed myself again, I went back out on the floor. I took Bridgette from her tank and wrapped her around my neck, talking softly to her the whole time. I figured she'd be a lot more lively now, since it was pushing on summer and it was a little warmer, but she didn't seem to be in the mood. She slithered a bit to establish a good hold on me, and then she was just still.

People usually ignored me when I had Bridgette or any other snake around my neck. For one, most people don't like snakes, and for another, I talk to the pets I carry around, and people sort of avoid me on principal. People think you're a short a few dimes when you talk to yourself.

"Should I call him back?" I asked Bridgette. It had already been a few minutes since I'd told Kenny off; he hadn't called or messaged me back, so I figured he was taking my suggestion. As for Bridgette, she didn't answer. "I could call him and tell him I actually would like for him to see me for a few minutes."

I'd pulled a ladder over to the fish bowl and I was slowly climbing up and down, dropping pinches of fish food into the tanks. Now and then I think someone walked by me from below and looked up and was kind of confused about me talking to the snake, but no one said anything.

Neither did Bridgette, if it comes to that.

"I don't want to come off as clingy," I explained to her. "Especially calling back so late after the fact. Like, I'm not trying to be all, 'ugh I hate you' and at the same time 'ugh I care about you.' I'm not trying to. I just don't know what to do, you know?"

"But, look, it's not like it's entirely my fault. If he were being honest with me to begin with, I wouldn't even have to wonder about it. It's because he's hiding things, that's the problem." We both let this simmer for a while while I felt justified. I was right, I thought. This was why I hated secret-keeping.

"But what if he's not hiding anything?" I asked her, and she didn't reply. "Like, I don't think I have a particularly overactive imagination. Fuck, I'm like the least imaginative person I know. I have like no imagination whatsoever. And yet I keep like, picturing him in like a Bond suit going off on some mission or something."

"That's just excessive," I commented after a few seconds. "Even if Kenny's hiding something, If, capital I, then it's not like he's a secret agent or something. He doesn't have a secret double life. He's just not mentioning some things."

"You say something dude?" someone called from below.

"No, just talking to the snake," I called back down, not even looking at them.

"Huh?" They sounded incredibly confused, but I ignored them, and I suppose they eventually went away.

"Do you think he would tell me if I asked?" I was going down the ladder at this point and Bridgette was clinging around my neck a little tighter to steady herself. "You think so though? Like, I think he would, and if I do ask and he doesn't say anything, then do I take him at his word or do I assume he's lying?" She'd stopped squeezing. I guess she didn't know either.

"It's about trust, damn it," I bleated. I'd moved the ladder over and was crawling up it again. "I should be able to trust people. I should just be able to take people at their word. Maybe people are lying fucking shitbags if they have to be, but what if they don't have to be? Can't people just say what's on their mind?"

"I guess you think your 'blunt honesty all the time' method is better than tact, huh?" My head snapped towards the familiar voice below. I shouldn't have been surprised.

"I told you to shove it," I said sourly.

"Yeah, I figured that was Craigspeak for 'I really want to see you,' so I hurried on over."

"It was English for 'You're a fucking asshole, get out of my face.'"

Kenny didn't even crack a smile. He was just sort of looking up at me with that face, his half-solemn, half-weakly amused face. Still, he was there, like he'd said he would be.

"Can you take a break or something?" he asked.

"No, I just got off break." I continued dropping the flakes into the tanks, ignoring him waiting below me. I considered asking him, flat out, any of the things I wanted to know, and I couldn't think of how to word them. I wanted to ask, believe me I did, but I didn't, and that frustrated me. Here I was ranting about how people ought to just say what's on their minds, and I couldn't say what was on mine.

To his credit, Kenny did try to appease me. "Hey, I'm sorry I keep getting into these little funks so much lately. I can't help it. I try not to let it carry over to you, but sometimes I can't help that either."

"I'm not mad about you being in a funk."

"Then what are you mad about?" he asked inquisitively.

"Who said I'm mad?" I replied pettishly.

And all he did was state, simply, "You're mad."

I decided that avoiding it anymore was just stupid; it was just playing unnecessary games. I'd been putting it off long enough. "I'm mad about whatever it is you do while you're in these funks."

His response was plainly bemused. "What do you think I do?"

"I don't know, that's my problem." I finally stepped down off of the ladder and put the cap on the fish flakes. I might have just walked away, assuming that he would follow after me, but I figured that for something like this, I should at least look him in the face when I talked to him. If I was gonna confront him, I needed to do it right. "You said you'd tell me if there was anything going on with you. But I've been hearing things."

"About me?" he asked, not sounding terribly surprised. Then he pressed me for an example. "Like?"

"Like, how you're this super hardcore anti-war protestor or something." It sounded pathetic, even to me. Petty, almost, like even if it were true, why should it even bother me?

"Okay." He didn't deny it; he just acknowledged it and waited for me to continue.

I hadn't exactly been expecting an indignant refusal or a passionate affirmation, but at the same time, just bland acknowledgment wasn't exactly what I was looking for, either. "...And Tweek was saying some stuff about how he used to talk to you sometimes."

Kenny nodded. "Yeah, sometimes when you guys weren't talking he'd come hang out with us. I don't think he likes me very much anymore though."

"He said you scared him too much because of how you talked about the war."

"Yeah, I get like that sometimes," he admitted, kind of sheepishly. He even grinned, like, gee whiz, my bad, I'm such a doofus for saying that the war on terror was actually attempted genocide. Ain't I a stinker? "I like to think I've improved a little though; I don't rant about it too much to you do I?"

I shook my head. "You hardly ever rant about it at all. That's what was so weird to me; that everyone was saying all of this stuff about you and I'd never seen it, it was like they were talking about a completely different person."

"I'm not trying to like, fake you out or anything. I haven't been trying to deceive you. I just didn't want to scare you off."

"So, you were lying, or..."

"Do you feel like I was lying?" he asked.

And the truth was that, no, I still didn't feel like he was lying. Whatever Clyde had said, I still believed my original story, and I didn't think it was excusing him or defending him; I just liked to think it was that simple. "I think you're aware that I don't give a shit and you just didn't want to bother me with it."

"Bingo," he exclaimed happily, and he snapped his fingers and pointed at me. "I don't know what your friends think; honestly, they can think whatever they want dude, they can suck a fat one for all I care. They don't know me and they're gonna assume what they assume. But that's the truth of it; if I thought you were interested, I'd talk to you about it more. But you're not, so I don't."

There was the other thing I wanted to mention, but the hard part was putting it into words. How do you just ask someone straight out like that if they're suicidal? How the fuck do you just casually drop it into conversation like that?

"There was this other thing," I started, but before I could go anywhere, Kenny interrupted me.

"If you're really curious, you can come by my house tomorrow. Early morning, like just after dawn."

"Why?" I asked, and I pushed aside my other question.

"I'll show you some stuff. Nothing important, nothing special. Just some stuff. And if you want I'll come clean to you, confess all of my sins, yada yada."

"I guess I could do that," I agreed.

"I'm honestly not trying to hide things from you. If you want to know, then ask, and I'll tell you. That easy."

I liked things being that easy. That's exactly the way I liked it. I didn't care what the answers were, as long as I knew what they were. "Then I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sweet. And, I guess this is kinda belated, but, why do you have a snake around your neck?"

"Oh, this is Bridgette," I introduced, and I reached up to pat her. I sometimes forgot that not everyone was aware of my beastly companions. "I carry her around the store sometimes when I'm working. Because, you know." Not because I talked to her and expected her to answer me or give me relationship advice or anything.

"Cool," he said, and he came closer to me to pet her too. "I like snakes. They eat rats."

"What's wrong with rats?" I asked, a little antagonistically if I'm honest. As you are aware, rodents were my favorite pets.

"They freak me out, that's all. Never cared much for 'em. Why do you think I have hoards of cats running around my house?"

"Because you're one of those crazy cat people?" I offered.

Finally, Kenny cracked a smile and allowed a little laugh to come through. Not a lot, not as much as usual, but some. "Basically yeah," he agreed. Then he shiftily looked around, confirmed that no one was watching, and he leaned in and pecked my cheek. "See ya 'round. You better come up with a full fucking interview for me by tomorrow or I'm going to be disappointed."

"Get out of my pet store," I ordered him, without acknowledging his previous statement.

"Your pet store?" he mocked with false reverence. "Oh, excuse me, I didn't know it was your pet store. I'll beat feet right away, boss."

"I'll set this snake on you if you don't get moving."

"Do it; a corn snake ain't gonna do shit to me." But he did start moving, and I felt a lot better. He had his usual smirk all over his face and he didn't look secretively depressed or anything, and he knew what the hell a corn snake was and that they weren't harmful. I had to appreciate a guy who at least knew that.

"He's fine," I told Bridgette. She didn't exactly agree with me, but she didn't exactly disagree either. "There's nothing wrong with him. I don't need to worry about him."

And I was right, at least for a while.


	54. Part Six: Bad News

Bad News

Kenny didn't come pick me up that following day, only because I told him it wasn't necessary. It was a school day, so no one thought it was strange for me to be up and about that early in the morning, and I'd already told my friends I wasn't going in that day. Tweek seemed to catch on that I intended to just ditch that day and at first he told me he'd do the same, but I told him off, said I had things to do. I was doing that more and more lately; I didn't seem to notice.

In late April, we were finally starting to see signs of spring, and for us, it may as well have been summer. The snow had thawed and the temperature jacked up a couple more degrees than we thought was strictly necessary. I began seeing snippets of green grass and snow and flowers, and while two weeks ago I'd needed an extra coat and a thick blanket to lie on the snow with, I'd ditched everything except a very light jacket. Colorado was fickle sometimes, and when you're used to cold, even a slight shift in temperature can be jarring for you. By the time I finished my long, lonesome walk across town, I'd actually built up something of a sweat.

Kenny's house was quiet by the time I got there; I couldn't find either of his parents, (judging by the foghorn snoring I later heard in their room, I'm guessing they were both asleep) and his sister was likely already at school. We already know where Kevin was: Fort Benning, Georgia, and that's a long way from Colorado.

The front door was unlocked, so after I kicked my way past the humbug cats stalking me up the dirt path with spitting yowls, I just let myself in. Immediately upon entry, my legs were assaulted by Kenny, and he pawed at me and meowed for me to pay attention to him.

I of course mean Kenny the cat, not Kenny proper. Although to be honest, I don't doubt that the human Kenny would have done something exactly as I have just described if he were in the right mood.

I stroked the orange tabby's ears a little to humor him, and then, on a hunch, I went on over to the kitchen to see if they'd been fed yet. Kenny became increasingly more excited as we moved towards the kitchen, darting in between my legs and rubbing on them enthusiastically with loud mewls, and the reason was soon made clear. There were three bowls, and all of them were empty.

Given that it was so quiet, I figured that Kenny (human type) hadn't gotten up yet. All of the cats were probably hungry.

I poured some of the bag into each bowl, (a little more generously than I normally would have, given that there were five cats) and like magic, the tinkling of kitty chow in tin bowls instantly summoned three more of the things – Princess Pussy, Fatass, and Bruce. Shitferbrains was probably still hiding somewhere in the house, as he usually did.

The cats dived onto the bowls like wolves to a carcass and they began chowing down. With them occupied, I put away the bag and then went on to find Kenny.

Kenny was still sleeping by the time I opened his door, and he didn't wake up by the time I'd slipped in and closed it behind me. He looked dead asleep, statuesque, limbs flailed out in all directions and his hair no different (and to be fair, no worse than it usually was) while he snored very lightly into his pillow.

I'd sort of figured he would be up by the time I got there, so I just stood near his door, at a loss, for a good minute or two while I decided what to do. I settled on clearing my throat, loudly, once or twice, but he continued lying there, knocked out, a damn snoring corpse, and I decided a more drastic wake up was necessary.

"Hey, dumbass, wake up," I called to him. "Up and at 'em!"

He still didn't move.

Finally, I just pulled off one of my shoes and threw it at him, and that finally did it, although not exactly as I'd been expecting. Lightning fast, practically before I could react myself, the shoe hit him, landed next to him, he grabbed it, and with uncanny accuracy, he flung it right back at me and hit me in the chest. Then, like nothing had happened, he dove back into his pillow and grunted.

By the time my shoe was back at my feet, I was still trying to work through how it had gotten there. I can only assume his reflexes had been honed after years of having troublesome siblings and unpredictable parents.

Still, I pulled off my other shoe and kicked the pair of them out of my way, and after I did, Kenny finally realized that shoes don't just hit people out of nowhere, and he rolled over and looked up at me with sleep laden eyes.

"You couldn't have just shook me awake or somethin'?" he asked, his words still thick.

"I hate when people touch me when I'm asleep," I explained. "It freaks me out to be woken up by someone touching me."

"Noted," he said, and then his head rolled back into his pillow. I wasn't having that.

"Hey, no, get the fuck up," I demanded. 

Grunt.

"Ken, come on. I don't feel like playing games today."

Grunt.

"Come on, you lazy asshole. I'm skipping school to be here. You said you had things to show me, things to confess, et cetera."

He rolled over just enough that he could hold his arms out, straight out, into the air.

"No," I said.

He made a whining, groaning noise and kicked his feet stubbornly. His arms continued to stay splayed out into the air.

"No," I told him.

His whining just got louder, like a little kid on the verge of throwing a tantrum if he continued being denied what he was asking for, and I knew exactly what he was asking for. Still, his arms remained jutting straight out.

I succumbed. I could never really deny Kenny anything. "Fine."

I came up next to the bed and sat down on the edge, and my butt had hardly touched the mattress before he lunged at me and pulled me into him arms and pulled the rest of me on the bed too. I was unsurprised; I just shifted around until I was lying more or less perpendicular to him, his arms still wrapped around me tight, and I commented, "You know, if you wanted to cuddle me, you just had to ask."

"You say that, but every time I'm like, 'Craig, I want cuddles' you're all like..." He deepened his voice a little and said, a little monotonously, mocking me, "'No, you're a disgusting pervert.'"

"Because the only reason you ever want to cuddle me is because you're horny. Like now."

He couldn't exactly deny this, (it was kind of hard to hide with his prick sticking into my back) but he still managed to sound offended. "Did it ever occur to you that I enjoy cuddling with you and it just turns me on after the fact?"

"It did, but I don't like lying to myself," I explained.

"Well, you know I'm no good at math, but let's do some additions here. I just woke up and I got some morning wood to show for it, can't help that."

"Alright."

"The first thing I see in the morning is you and you know you make me horny."

"Alright."

"And you called me 'Ken' and that drives me crazy," he finished, and he starting grinding against me, nice and slow. "So if you can't see how all that would add up to a bone on, then I don't know what the hell to do with you."

"So, you're saying this is my fault," I elaborated. He hadn't stopped grinding, so I chastised him. "And lay off, you're gonna give me a bruise with that thing, jeeze."

He did stop, and he also corrected himself. "Not that it's your fault, but if, you know, you were feeling generous-"

"I'm not."

"Or horny," he added hopefully, and he finally unwrapped his arms and sent one downward to rub my crotch, and I can only imagine the smug smirk on his face when he got there. I couldn't help it either.

"I don't feel like getting all messy today. I just showered, something you probably haven't done for, what, three, four days?"

"You know what's not messy at all?" he asked innocently. "Your sassy little mouth."

"You're relentless, aren't you?"

Kenny just chortled and made sure I could feel his hard on digging into my back again, and that was his answer.

My answer was to sigh roughly and pulled out of his grasp while he clawed after me and whined my name. I sat up and threw my legs over the edge, but instead of leaving, I just reached over into his bedside drawer, digging around in the clothes and other junk inside for a condom. You can imagine, especially after Kevin left, we'd started keeping a nice stockpile.

This was more for my comfort than his. He preferred it bareback, but I still wasn't a big fan of getting stuff all over me. So especially when I had to blow him, I wanted a rubber on him. Not to mention, when it came to those nights when we just crashed out after we were done, it wasn't especially pleasant waking up with lube and stuff having dripped into a little wet spot underneath your ass.

"I'll blow you once, but that's it," I told him. "If you've still got issues after that, you can take care of it yourself."

"I hope your mouth isn't as cold as your heart," he pouted. But he was sticking out his tongue and sensually licking his lips and giving me a full dose of bedroom eyes, and I wasn't offended.

He just had on a plain white tee and boxers that can only be described as "dilapidated." So after he yanked off the blanket, I settled over him while I ripped away the wrapper, and he slipped himself through the opening, still sticking his tongue out at me while he languidly stroked up and down.

I made sure he could clearly see me rolling my eyes, and then, while he settled himself back on his arms with an indulgent smirk, I pulled the rubber over his dick and crawled between his legs. I didn't give him a chance to make some smart comment that would probably result in me blushing furiously and then result in his self-satisfied smirk growing wider; I just lowered my head, not taking it in my mouth yet, just breathing on it, and I jerked him, a little roughly at first, just to hear him sharply draw breath, just to hear him lose his cool a little. He kept trying to gently thrust towards my mouth, and I just let it slide by, giving him long licks and slowly stroking it until the smile finally dropped from his face and it was replaced by pleading arousal. Then and only then did I let it in my mouth, but only the head, and only just. He'd have to lose it a little more for me to take more of it.

For the record, I like giving blowjobs. My trouble is that I don't like the taste of either condoms or cum. I sort of have to pick one (I almost always pick the condom) and then I take it slowly so I can adjust. So I play it like a little game, see how desperate I can get my partner before I swallow him whole.

Kenny wasn't too desperate yet, but I kept my fingers wrapped around his cock, my tongue lazily encircling the tip, and soon I could hear him breathing harder. I squeezed him gently and sucked his head and then let it slip out of my mouth while I ducked and then dragged my tongue from base to tip over and over again, slow, breathing warmly on it the whole time, and when I wrapped my lips around him again he sighed a little cry, I figured that was as much of a cue as I was gonna get. Kenny didn't do a lot of reacting when he got a blowjob; he still always enjoyed it, always liked getting them, but he'd had way too many for him to really react over it, unlike some people. More on that later.

I stopped going slow and I just descended on his dick, deep throating it without getting any teeth in the way, (I'd had some practice; guess who with) and then I just started bobbing my head, up and down, my fingers in a fist right against my lips and following my bobbing head with nice, firm strokes. He'd started making these rough little groaning sighs and his hand was on top of my head, fingers running through my hair, and I could feel his legs shaking around me.

Kenny almost always lasted longer than me, especially with a condom, so I figured I'd be down there for at least a couple of minutes, (as long as ten or fifteen if I just wasn't on my game or if he was just intentionally holding back) but it wasn't long before his fingers dug into my hair and he pulled me off of him, his cock popping out from my lips, and I thought at first it was just because he wanted to see my face right next to his cock, my lips wet and my tongue lolling out and my cheeks blushing, but then he shakily asked me a question.

"Want me to blow you too?" 

"Sixty-nine?" I asked. We'd done it a couple of times before, obviously; it was one of the first things he'd wanted to do.

"Yeah."

I hadn't been in too bad a state before, but sucking him off was, with good reason, getting me hot and bothered, and I now had a very insistent boner that I needed to take care of, stat. "Yeah, sure," I responded, like it made no difference to me either way. I went to reach for a second condom, and he stopped me.

"Don't need it," he told me, and he opened his mouth and wagged his tongue at me.

I just shook my head and scoffed, "Clyde was right; you are bad news."

Kenny just grinned; he didn't seem even remotely perturbed by this assertion. "Am I?"

"You're going around with all of these strange people behind my back, for all I know you could be sucking the dick of every guy in town-"

"I'm not," he put in before I could complete my thought.

"-and you want me to let you put your potentially diseased mouth on my dick."

"Yup."

"Bad news," I stated again.

"Always."

He shifted around underneath me, my knees on either side of his head, and when he was situated, I went right back to blowing him, slower now while he worked on pulling my jeans off. He didn't have the patience to get them all the way off; he just pulled them off my hips and let them collect around my ankles. At first I started trying to kick them away, but then his hand slipped into my briefs and grabbed me, and I let his hard on slip out of my mouth while I sighed happily. He slowly jacked me until he had me freed from my briefs, and he reached up and coyly licked the head with just the tip of his tongue, and I shuddered.

"Don't get distracted," he scolded. I'd been leaning on him, his dick still throbbing in my hand while I absently stared at his feet. His socks didn't match; one had gray toes, the other I think had once been white. I still remember that for some reason. "Put that mouth of yours to work."

"Make me," I dared him, which wasn't very wise considering he still had a very sensitive part of me in his hand.

Kenny's response was to pull my hips down. He didn't play with me and tease me and draw it out like I had done; he just took me all at once, swallowing me whole while I lowered my head and groaned. He'd also had a lot of practice.

"Oh, fuck yeah," I growled. I'd started rolling my hips while he moved his head, and I could feel his throat constrict with each swallow and his tongue slide up and down, and fuck, his mouth was so hot. And he didn't choke once, didn't even gag; he just swallowed from tip to base like a fucking porn star. "Oh Christ yeah, that feels fucking good," I breathed, a little shakily now.

"Mouth," he reminded me, though his was full, and it came out more like "mouff."

Neither of us went slow after that. We both bucked our hips enough to make each other choke. I used my own spit to give my hand enough to jerk him, and now and then he'd moan and it would make his mouth and throat vibrate and it would just shoot straight through my dick and it'd make me moan too and I'd feel his legs quivering underneath me again. I dove down and swallowed him up, sometimes gagging on him while his hips thrust up and he fucked my willing mouth, but he paid for his gluttonous thrusting in due time.

"AHH shit," he hissed, and he abruptly withdrew from me. "Teeth, man, teeth..."

"Maybe stop trying to jam your cock into my throat and I'll be able to keep them out of the way," I chided. It was a little hard to pay much attention though; he was still slowly jerking me off, and at first it was a little dry, but then he drooled liberally into his hand and he smeared it all over me, especially my head, and he palmed it firmly, teasingly slow. My slip-up completely forgotten, his hips started bucking up again, and I obediently returned to sucking him off.

I held my balance on his thigh with one hand while the other cupped and fondled his 'nads, and the whole time I was trying not to think of his fingers curling around me tighter, the tip of his tongue lavishing my head, how good his rough lips felt as I slid in and out of them, how his other hand was gripping one ass cheek tight as he pushed me into his mouth, and then on top of that, the sudden sting that would strike me as he occasionally smacked it, though I'd never admit that I kinda liked it when he did that.

I tried not to finish before him; I really did. It embarrassed me when I did, even if he didn't say anything about it afterward. But his head fell back onto the sheets and he gasped and he started jacking me, hard, purposely, like I did to myself when I was on the edge and I was trying to finish, and I couldn't stand a pace like that, not knowing without even having to look that he was underneath with his mouth open wide and his tongue hanging out just waiting, and then he started whispering to me, "Cum baby, come on, cum for me, cum in my mouth so I can lick it all up," and fuck, it embarrassed me enough to make me bury my flushing face in my arm, but it also sent fire coursing through me, and I couldn't fucking take it.

I didn't even try to keep working on him; I gasped at first and groaned and fucked against his hand and then it hit me, and I gripped up a handful of his sheets and I moaned while he stroked it out onto, I presume, his tongue. He was greedily lapping away at my head, even when it was over. He loved cum; said it was the best part of being with a guy.

"Oh shit," he was wheezing, and I'd nearly forgotten about him; all I was doing was just lazily stroking him and he must have been close; I could hear it in his voice. "Oh fuck Craig, a little harder, just a little more, oh yeah I'm gonna..."

I didn't get a chance to really work on Kenny anymore; I'd hardly started jacking him again when his hand dove down and helped me, both of us working him at the same time, and then he bucked up and he groaned and I watched the tip of the condom slowly fill up as he lost it. I could see his toes curling in his socks, I could just see his cock twitch with each spurt, and from below I could hear smooth, mellow noises crooning from his throat.

When he'd finished, his arms both limply fell away and dropped to his sides, and in the meantime, I rolled off of him and scooted up to plop my head on the pillow. I breathed fast and hard for a few seconds, my mouth still hanging open while that sweet afterglow started coming in strong, and I hardly had a moment of peace before Kenny had to be himself.

"You taste sweet," he commented, and I hid my face into the pillow so he couldn't see me blushing. I hated when he commented on the taste. "You been eating pineapple or somethin' lately?"

"Shut up," I told him. Mango juice, not pineapple. My mom had gotten a carton of it and I'd been practically inhaling it the past few days. I liked mango juice. "That's a myth, it's not true."

He was starting to pull himself up; I felt him shifting and moving to join me. I'm supposing at some point he pulled off the rubber, although what he did with it I'm not sure. "Whatever you say, Mr. Sweet Spooge," he teased. When I risked a glance over at him, he was still licking his lips smugly.

"You're disgusting," I mumbled into the pillow, and I told myself to stop blushing, because I just didn't want to hear his crowing at that moment.

"Would you have it any other way?" he asked.

The answer was, of course, no. But I didn't tell him that. He just threw himself next to me and snuggled my head until I unburied it from the pillow, and he kissed me and cuddled me, and I forgot why I was even there. We just laid there for a while, feeling content and lazy, not bothering to think about anything. At least, I wasn't. After what happened later, I'm sure he probably was.


	55. Part Six: Good Business

Good Business

I'd gotten used to not letting one orgasm do me in, but I still preferred to indulge in a little laziness after I blew a load. Kenny, however, only allowed himself five, maybe ten minutes before he hopped out, fixing his boxers so he wasn't still hanging out, and he went right to work. The guy regularly got off a few times a day; one orgasm wasn't going to keep him down.

He left for the bathroom and he occupied that for a while. Maybe my comment about his lack of hygiene got to him, (not that I really blamed him; his parents encouraged as few showers as possible to cut down on water bills and he didn't really share my obsession for personal cleanliness) but I heard the shower start running, and I didn't see or hear from him for some time.

I'd managed to pull my pants back on and then the blanket over me, and I just laid there the whole time he was gone. Shitferbrains made an appearance and sneaked inside and then jumped in bed next to me, nudging himself right up in the small of my back. I didn't mind; I'd started to like Kenny's cats. The non-Satanic ones, anyway.

When Kenny eventually returned, he had a bowl of Frosted Flakes with no milk, and he was pinching them up and tossing them into the air, catching them in his open mouth like popcorn. His hair was still sopping wet and dangling all over in thick strands, and he'd only replaced his boxers; he was still going around shirtless. He had goosebumps and his hair was standing on end; I guess his shower had pretty much been cold.

"Thanks for feeding my cats," he said.

"No problem."

"Hungry?" he asked, gesturing towards me with the bowl.

"Ate breakfast at home," I told him.

"Of course you did," he said, with no particular inflection, and he walked around his room, munching.

I started moving around on the bed, bracing myself up against the wall, (he had no headboard; the frame and mattress were just shoved against a wall) and interfering with Shit in the process. He wound up just readjusting himself next to me instead, and I absently pet him while I watched Kenny carelessly pull a comb through his hair and spray water droplets everywhere. It was long when it was wet and hanging down, past his ears, and it was also a lot darker, the dirty blond very nearly brown. His hair was weird like that.

I realized that it couldn't be avoided any longer, and that the unpleasantness would soon have to commence whether I liked it or not. I may as well be the one to lead into it. Why wait? Why dance around it? Why skim the surface? I had come here for a reason, and I intended to find out everything I could, and now was as good a time as any. At least now he might be in a good mood to discuss it since he'd gotten his rocks off at least once.

"So, how long have you been all, you know, peacenik?" My introductory question was suffering a little on behalf of me still not really knowing how to classify Kenny.

"I'm still not sure if I should be offended by that word or not," he told me. He placed the bowl on the floor while he dug through his clothes, almost all of which were in a pile in the corner.

"Whatever you decide to call it, I'm just wondering how long that's what you've been."

"Since I was like, fourteen, fifteen, I guess."

"How come?"

"I don't know. I guess I was just pissed off and I was wondering what I should do about it, and I decided on this." As I'd described quite some time ago, near the beginning of this recollection, such a blasé explanation resulted in my interest waning immediately. I had expected some sort of incredibly moving speech or something, not just complete nonchalance, like, hell, if he'd happened to pick up a book on Italian opera or something, he may as well be doing that.

"Why the war?" I insisted. "Why does it bother you so much?"

"Violence appalls me," he said, surprisingly cold considering his previous indifference. "Senseless, meaningless, pointless, brainless violence. I can't stand it, I can't fucking stand seeing people just die for no fucking reason."

"Some would argue that they're dying for a purpose," I reasoned, in my passive aggressive way – not that I was arguing that, just saying that someone else might.

"You read Catch-22," he stated. "Remember the part where it says all these people think they're dying for their country, and that's worth dying for, and yet surely so many countries can't all be worth dying for?

"And how anything worth dying for is also worth living for," I said. I remembered the part in question clearly, the sacrilegious old man.

"Yeah. That's exactly right," Kenny confirmed. "So many people willing to give their lives so that their side may or may not have a slightly larger chance of 'winning' a war, a war that has no purpose, that isn't even winnable..." At first he snorted, then, he recited: "'It doesn't make a damned bit of difference who wins the war to someone who's dead.'"

"Some people join for other reasons," I rationalized. "Some people don't die just to be patriotic."

"No one dies because it's fucking patriotic," he replied, and again, it was cold. "They die because of IEDs or AK-47s or RPGs."

There was really no valid response to this, so I just watched him shiver into a gray wife beater. He was still cold; I could see his nipples poking through the thin material. But he didn't go for anything else; he just picked up his cereal again. He was chewing slowly, his rigid scowl still cutting into his face. Just that quick, he'd gone from one Kenny to the other, and we'd hardly even started. I wasn't looking forward to the rest of this conversation.

"So, what about your parents?" I asked. "You said they didn't step in when you and Kevin were arguing, so, do they agree with you?"

"'course not," he dissented. "They're conservative gun-toting rednecks from the bottom of their hearts." Though he spoke harshly about the war, he spoke almost fondly of his folks, like they were some faint, nostalgic memory. "My Ma though, she gets why it upsets me sometimes, especially having Kev leave."

My next question had nothing to do with the war, nothing to do with whether or not he might be a little overzealous about his pacifism. It just had to do with us. "Do your parents know? You know, about, like, us?" To the outside world, I still considered us fuck buddies. Internally, I guess I was still sort of struggling with what the right word to use was.

"I dunno." He said it like it had never occurred to him before, like it had just never crossed his mind. "I guess they oughta know somethin' by now, but we all just sorta mind our own business in this family. No news is good news; that's our motto."

"So they haven't, y'know, like I know your dad whoops your ass sometimes, but-"

"I'd be much obliged if you didn't say things like that." He didn't say it mean or sorely, he said it perfectly kindly, perfectly reserved, perfectly in control of himself.

I really should have known better. No one talked about it. It was an unspoken rule. A little dignity was one of the few things he could claim ownership of; it wasn't my right to take that. "Sorry."

Kenny just continued. "I get roughed up sometimes, yeah. It's not because I'm half a fag. It's because my dad's half an idiot and I'm half a smart-ass. And that has nothing to do with how I feel about the war," he concluded, coming around full circle. "I do a lot of things opposite my folks, but this isn't just me rebelling out of boredom. I got a purpose. I know why I'm doing this."

I couldn't help but think back to what Tweek had said, about how he got the sense that Kenny was anticipating that this righteous fury would somehow be the end of him, and a little shiver involuntarily slid down my spine. But I couldn't ask him. I couldn't.

"I'll...I'll be right back."

"Sure," he said, not even bothering with why. He was tilting the bowl into his mouth to collect any leftover crumbs and sugar granules, and he was patting the side with his hand to coax everything he could from the bottom. He wasn't paying any attention to me at all.

I slid out of the bed, (again disturbing Shit, this time critically to where he scampered out of the room, pissed off) and headed towards his bathroom. It was a mess; every piece of metal visible was rusted, the mirror was cracked, the tile was broken, the paint was peeling. Furthermore, there was water all over the ground, and no visible towel either hanging up or in a corner somewhere. I had a feeling Kenny had probably just had to just stand there, drip drying, or else shake himself off like a dog.

I don't know why I needed to get away from him just then. I don't want to say that I was afraid, because even though I probably was, I didn't feel like it. Maybe I was too good at disillusioning myself. I wasn't really angry, either. I guess I was just doing what I always did, putting distance between me and something I was worried would hurt me.

But that just wasn't gonna fly. I kept telling myself: this is why you're here. You came to find out what his beef is with the war, what makes him tick. There was no distance to put or walls to erect. It was time to get up close and personal. The truth, I told myself. You're here for the truth. Take it or leave it.

So that I had some sort of reason for my disappearance, I stopped to take a piss real quick, though I couldn't really wash my hands after with the bare trickle from his sink's faucet. I guess maybe Kenny had already used up their water for now.

Then, after I took a few good breaths and told myself to get over it, to just dive in and take whatever came at me, I returned to his room.

I'd been gone probably seven or eight minutes, not a lot, but he'd already taken claim of the bed in my absence, throwing several items on top of it in no particular order. He was sitting on the ground, his legs crossed, using a thick red paint marker to outline letters on a large strip of white cardboard.

Amongst the paraphernalia he had strewn out on the sheets, there was one in particular that caught my eye, and as I made my way to the bed to investigate, Kenny resumed painting the letters, outlining each of them carefully, as neatly as he could. He lacked Tweek's innate neatness, but thus far, I could read one word:

"WAR."

On the bed was the usual shit he took with him everywhere; the infamous orange parka, his wallet, and a lighter with a half-empty pack of smokes. Then there were gloves, more paint markers, duct tape, and a bandana tailored to look like the American flag.

This last item was my goal. The reason: over the red and white stripes, there was what looked like a blood stain. I couldn't quite tell at a distance, but when I got closer, there was no mistaking it.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Bandana," he grunted. His forehead was deeply furrowed as he focused on his work, trying to transcribe his message as neatly as possible.

"No shit," I replied dryly. "There's blood on it."

"Yeah."

"What happened?" I asked. The blood stain looked old, but not from washing. It might have been washed once to get most of it out, but other than that, it seemed well-used, well-worn.

When Kenny answered me, he spoke as though he were recalling some dream he had once had and had long since forgotten the finer details of. He didn't sound angry. He didn't sound excited. He just talked. "It was turning ugly fast. Everyone was getting worked up and things were starting to escalate. One guy threw a punch-" He shook his head and sighed. "It only takes one asshole to do it and then they all start doin' it. I remember what my sign said that day: 'True peace is not merely the absence of tension; it is the presence of justice.' It's a Martin Luther King Jr. quote. Anyway, some guy sought me out in the crowd. Saw the bandana covering my mouth. He said I had no right to wear that flag and talk shit about his country. I explained that it was MY country too, I'd been BORN here, but he was having none of it. They had it all wrong, you see; there was some other dudes out there that were just fuckin' nuts, totally lost sight of the goal and just started slingin' shit at Bush and Congress and gettin' real vulgar about it

'n winding everybody else up. That's the trouble of going to these things; you don't know who's gonna show up. It was supposed to be peaceful, but not everyone is peaceful about achieving peace."

I hadn't been expecting it all to just come out like that, to just get thrown at my feet. I was having trouble latching onto it at first, and I was gaping at him the whole time he talked, taking shallow breaths until he finished, and I asked, "You're talking about a protest?"

"A rally, yeah," he clarified. His sign read "WAR IS GOOD-"

"You go to those war protests? Where people get all hyped up and start marchin' and hollerin'-"

"Sometimes," he said. He still didn't look up at me; he was still digging those red letters into the cardboard. "Usually I just go up to Denver, stand around on street corners, try to strike up conversations with folks walkin' by. There ain't a lot of protests to go to, 'specially not in this part of the country. But if there are, and they're peaceful, I go."

"Peaceful, huh?" I said wryly while I turned the bandana over in my hands, still staring at that blood stain.

"They're all supposed to be peaceful, dude. None of the guys on our side ever goes in planning on knockin' teeth out; what the hell is the point of that?"

I thought of Clyde confiding in me that Kenny had gotten in a fistfight with Bill Allen, and I wondered who threw the first punch, and more so, I wondered if Kenny was justified in fighting back. Does a pacifist have the right to defend themselves?

Kenny wasn't quite done yet. "So, this guy, he says I don't deserve to wear my own flag and I tell him to go fuck himself. He winds up, and he just punches me right in the shnoz, and blood just starts gushing everywhere. Luckily, some of the guys I'd gone with pulled me out of there, and I kept my temper. To date I've never gotten physically violent, but that first time, it was damn close, dude, damn close."

I just kept turning the flag over in my hands a few times, imagining the scene in my head; a fifteen year old Kenny with an American flag over his mouth, punched out for holding a sign recalling the wisdom of Martin Luther King Jr., and not raising a fist in response. I tried to decide which Kenny seemed more likely to me – the one who cussed out his teachers and got into fistfights at school, or the one who quietly stood his ground while a stranger socked him in the face. Let's be honest here: based on what we know of Kenny, which assumption would you make?

"You know the type of people who were there my first time, Craig?" he asked. He didn't look up from his little project; he was finishing the word "business."

"People?" I guessed, probably a little more snidely than I meant. He took it literally, and he pounced on it readily.

"Goddamn right you are, buddy. Fuckin' people. Fuckin' American people." He sniffled and wiped his nose off on his sleeve, but then he resumed painting, just as intently, and he talked. "There were Chinese women in cheongsam and Japanese men in yukata and African men in djellaba and muslim women in hijab and just fuckin' everyone. All different races, all different cultures, all people who spoke perfect English and who'd been born in America. Whose families had immigrated when their home countries had become intolerable. Americans who understood the value of freedom who knew that what we were doing was wrong."

Now I found the Kenny I knew of in passing, the one who would sometimes just lose himself in his self righteous tangents, and I knew it was wise to just let him talk. It made me kind of nervous, kind of uneasy, so I just stole a cigarette from his pack and fell onto the bed, flicking his shitty lighter a few times to light it. I just wanted to occupy myself while he talked fervently below.

"This one lady, her family had crossed the border from Juarez to El Paso. Juarez is one of the most dangerous cities in the world, dude, all thanks to the drug cartel, but immigration was a nightmare. Her mom gave birth to her two days after they made it to the city. Since she was born in an El Paso hospital, she was a legal American by birth. Her mama been fuckin' eight and a half months pregnant dude, fuckin' jumpin' borders to give birth to her baby in America."

"Hardcore," I said. I tried to sound impressed, but I admit that I probably didn't. You'll recall me saying that I did not appreciate anecdotes being told to make a point. I preferred that facts were presented without emotional attachment dragging them down.

"Her parents managed to stay hidden for seventeen years, and then they were deported back to Mexico. She got to stay because her birth certificate said 'Texas' on it; that simple. It's a fuckin' two mile difference, dude."

"Shame," I commented. I smoked and pulled his ashtray from his desk onto the bed so that I didn't have to keep reaching over. "So she got to stay in America?"

"Yeah. She got emancipated at seventeen so she could finish high school. And you know what? She did MORE than that. She became a fuckin' DOCTOR and she made enough to help her parents earn their green cards, ten years later. Can you imagine?"

"No, I can't." I couldn't. I'd been smoking weed and contributing to graffiti by thirteen and my first kiss had been the most important thing to happen to me at sixteen. Now at seventeen, I was just content that I'd turned in my V card, and frankly, I wasn't all that interested in doing anything with my life other than smoking cigarettes and getting a blowjob now and then. I was still a shithead; a punk kid who knew everything.

"This other guy, everyone just called Mr. Tran. He was a Vietnamese immigrant back from the seventies. He was a little kid when he came here with his parents, none of them speakin' a lick of English. He's a professor of American literature, speaks better than my stupid ass all day long."

"Some folks got grit," I reasoned. "Determination. Some folks just want it bad enough."

"And that's our goddamned problem, Craig," he said purposely, and he stabbed his paint marker in the air a few times to enunciate his point. "We're fucking entitled, we take everything for granted, we take the entire world for granted. Our problem is that people don't care, so these assholes in Washington get to call all the shots. The same shit happened during Vietnam dude. No one fucking cared, and no one fucking did anything about it until it was too late. And the guys blazing through the villages and killing civilians and children; you know what they'd say? They'd say 'We have to destroy the village in order to save it.' That was their reasoning. That was their logic. Can you fucking believe that?"

"There's people who would say that Vietnam and the resulting public outrage was caused because people cared TOO MUCH over what they didn't entirely understand," I told him then. I sort of wondered where I'd be right now had I continued thinking that; these days it seems like such an easy conclusion to reach, but then, that was when I was cold. That was when I didn't care about anything. "We cared so much about 'Nam that we stuck our noses into that mess and then America didn't understand and they got all up in arms about it and they just made a big damn mess out of everything. They blamed presidents when they should've blamed Congress who should've blamed the Senate when it all came down to voters and taxpayers funding it all. Instead there was so much care and no focus and everyone just settled for blaming everyone else and not doing a damn thing about it. Even all those protesters and stuff in the seventies, what did they really achieve? What did they really do?"

"Do you really think all that?" Kenny asked, and he looked up from his sign. He didn't look mad; a little curious, maybe, but not mad.

"I don't care," I said automatically; it was sort of just what I always said.

It wasn't until a minute or so later that I realized that I was the America that he was talking about, and his proceeding, disappointed silence was directed not at the unseen legions of desk jockies who didn't know the difference between Iraq and Afghanistan and forty somethings who didn't vote but bitched about the president anyway; it was directed at me. The ones who just float, those who consider themselves above such trivialities like war and suffering. As though it were not worthy having an opinion on. Here he'd probably thought he could finally open up to me, finally give me a neat little peak into his world, and there I was, dismissing it.

"I'm just playing devil's advocate," I explained awkwardly. "It's important to see both sides, you know?"

"Well, at least you can think critically about it, even if you still don't care," he commented. It was a neutral statement, indifferent almost. If he was mad, even a little bit, he didn't show it. "Some people don't even think that hard into it."

I think it bothered him then that I didn't care, but he was too kind to say it. I could remember walking outside the movie theater and how he had so quickly shut himself up when he was about to ream the people like me, how he'd apologized over and over again for it. It irritated me. Kenny kept a lot of things in his head that I wish he hadn't; that I wish he had just said. A lot of things I would later ponder over and would cause me much strife and many sleepless nights. And furthermore, for some reason, his response made me want to redeem myself somehow.

I realized just in time that my cigarette was overdue and I flicked it into the ashtray. In the meantime, below, Kenny had finished his sign. In bold red letters on a white background, it proclaimed:

"WAR IS GOOD BUSINESS  
>INVEST YOUR SON!"<p>

"It's an old slogan," Kenny explained. He'd noticed I was peering over his shoulder at it. "Was used a lot in the seventies, probably existed before that. Everyone's so fuckin' proud of themselves because their kids are going to war to die for them, 'cause all of these asshats in Washington can pay for their oil with the lives of soldiers. Children shouldn't go to die before their parents, and especially not because of a fuckin' war they started." He said it so bitterly, so tortured. It wasn't until a while afterward, quite a long while afterward, that I realized it was probably because he was thinking of Kevin.

"This country was founded on war, Ken," I said. I felt like he didn't really care about my opinion anymore, but I still said it. I thought about putting my hand on his shoulder, but I thought better of it. "Sometimes war can change lives for the better. Sometimes wars are worth fighting."

"Yeah, but what kind of change is it we're making over there when you see the kind of change it's making here?" he asked. "They keep saying we've already won the war, we've won it, and if we have, then what the hell did we win?"

I didn't know. I honestly didn't know. I had no answer for him. I normally did my best to ignore every aspect of the war, both what happened over there and what happened here because of it. The truth is that I didn't actually know if it was worth fighting or not, and for once, I was thinking that maybe, it mattered.

Kenny left the sign on the ground to dry and he moved to the bed to sit next to me. I'd finished my first cigarette and as I nipped a second one from the pack, I handed him one as well.

There was a sort of detached coldness about him that I wasn't used to feeling; I expect that it was the same cold shoulder and vague dislike that I usually exuded whenever I sat next to someone. I admit, it didn't feel very good. Not coming from someone who usually radiated warmth, like him. He felt completely separate from me, though he was inches away from me and I could feel him shiver slightly as a draft caught hold of him. I could see his pale flesh still broken out in goosebumps and his light smattering of freckles up his arms and across his cheeks and how dirty his fingernails were, though he'd only just showered. And yet he felt miles away from me, like he was nowhere near me, like he was actively trying to pretend I wasn't there, and it hurt.

I made a decision that day that I don't think I really thought through. It seemed so simple at the time. I was so thoughtless, such an apathetic shithead that it didn't occur to me that such decisions could change the course of my life. I was an invulnerable teenager, remember? I knew everything.

"I'll come with you," I said. He didn't look up; he was just as he was before on that cold bench in the park, hunched over and holding his hands while he stared deeply into the depths of his raggedy carpet. I told him, "I don't have a sign or anything, but I'll come watch, at least. You know, for support."

"No," he said. It was that simple; he didn't even implicate that it was possibly open for discussion.

"Why the hell not?"

"Because you don't care; why should you go?"

"Because I want to," I said obstinately. "That's what you're doing today, right? There's a protest."

"Eh," he said. He sort of shrugged. "It's a gathering of people. Impromptu, found out about it yesterday morning. It's a build up for May Day, like a stepping stone."

"May Day?" I repeated, but he ignored me.

"So it'll be small. Not a lot of people, probably not a big deal."

"So all the better for me to go today than any other day, right?" I reasoned.

Kenny scoffed, but he was still tense; he was solemn. He wasn't tolerating a half-baked joke today. "Even a small protest is really serious. Most of these guys I'm meeting, they're strangers. You get into it with one of them, they'll probably press charges. You can't be tried as an adult yet, I don't think anyway; there's some law that says you can be in some cases or something I think. But it's still dangerous. You could still be arrested if something goes wrong."

"I understand," I said.

"I don't know if you do." He'd been right, of course. I didn't. I was just trying to get him back on my good side. If that meant getting angry over something I was indifferent about, then whatever. I didn't see it that way at the time, but that's all it was; me just allowing him to enable me. To satisfy my unrealized thirst for trouble.

"Look, this isn't like when the war first started. It can't be that bad, right? Do people even still really get that upset about it? I didn't even know people even did rallies and shit like that, and I haven't heard about a violent protest or anything in I don't even know how long."

"But are you ever listening for it?" he asked. He was looking distantly away, letting the cigarette burn. "There's not as much public outcry as there should be, yeah. And that's why we keep standing out there with our signs, trying to strike up conversations with passersby to get them to understand. We wish there were more public outcry. We wish it were like 'Nam when people would flood the streets and the media would broadcast it live across the whole country so everyone could see innocent people being beaten down with batons. But it's not. It's not anywhere near that. Police don't even really get involved; it's like they think we don't even matter."

"But it doesn't really get violent, right?" I stressed, just to clarify. "You said despite that time you got punched, you said it's normally quiet, right?"

"Most don't want to fight," Kenny agreed. "Usually we just stand out there and talk to everyone who walks by and is willing to listen. Mostly it's a lot of talking, a lot of just trying to get people to open their eyes to what's really happening. For others, it's mob mentality." He shook his head and sighed shortly. "One guy says something and then a couple guys join in and then it seems like everyone is doing it, so you may as well do it too. And then the first guy throws a punch and then it's all over. A peaceful demonstration can spiral out of control in five minutes."

"You've seen it," I said. It wasn't a question.

"I've been sneaking off to Denver since I was fifteen or so," he explained. "Not frequently and not always participating in groups, but I go. It's pretty up in the air whether it's gonna be peaceful or ugly. Most of the time I'd say it's peaceful, most times it's even kinda boring, most times it seems kind of pointless. But sometimes..." He trailed off. He was still looking far away; he was nowhere next to me.

For some reason, the only thing that I could focus on was that Kenny had been doing this for two years, and I had been a significant factor in his life for at least half a year, and he was only just telling me now. Only giving me a taste of his reality without ever really revealing it. Then, the only thing I could think of was whether or not he'd been hurt other times since his bloody flag.

I'm not sure if I was really aware of my abrupt change in thought process at the time. It must have seemed natural, a seamless transition. I was doing things like joining a cause I didn't understand just to make a guy happy and being concerned over whether or not said guy had been hurt. It was almost like I gave a shit.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" I asked. "I would have gone with you."

All at once, Kenny came back to me. Just like that, like my words were magic, like I'd dumped Kenny chow in a tin bowl, he was there, and he was looking right at me, acknowledging me. He admitted, sheepishly: "I didn't think you would want to."

"You didn't ask," I said flatly.

Kenny just tiredly smiled. "Do you always just do what's asked of you? Obeying everything without question?"

In the middle of all this, it was an odd question to me, one that made me feel strange thinking about what my honest answer should be. I was aware, of course, that I had a tendency to do whatever was expected of me, especially by authority figures or those I maintained a deep respect towards. Mostly because, of course, I didn't want trouble. All I ever wanted was to avoid trouble. But did people see it like that, or did it come off as subservient?

And worse yet, infuriatingly enough, a sentence drifted back to me out of nowhere. Something completely insignificant, completely inconsequential, something I had made no attempt to remember, presented itself center stage in my mind. A simple sentence from 'Catch-22.'

"They agreed that it was neither possible nor necessary to educate people who never questioned anything."

And there was my answer; there was why Kenny had never mentioned any of this to me until now. 

"Yeah, sort of," I replied. It was, at the time, the best answer I could come up with.

"Well, I still don't want you to go," Kenny declared. He wouldn't look at me as he said it; he just wordlessly flicked his ash into the tray between us and stared out his window. "Not if you're just going for the fuck of it or because you think I want you to. I ain't trying to force you to get involved. You should stay out of it if it's not something you care about. We don't need numbers, statistics, bodies; we ain't no fuckin' US Army. We need people who care, who want to make a difference."

Perhaps it was just to prove that I did not always just do what I was told, perhaps just to prove that I did question things and that I wasn'timpossible, but I replied: "I don't really give a fuck what you want. I'm coming anyway. I'll hold up these stupid signs and talk to people and see what this is all about. Because I want to, not because you want to."

Kenny's devilishly handsome little smirk was back, and he cast it right at me. "I thought you'd say that." He stuck his cigarette in between his teeth and he rose from the bed, making his way to his dresser and pulling out the top drawer. He dug around for a minute until he found a blue bandana, and then he threw it to me in a clumped up little ball. "You'll want that," he assured me.

"I don't really 'do' bandanas," I said derisively as I unraveled the little cloth and pulled it apart to inspect it. It was blue and white, double stitched; it was raggedy but it was serviceable. Across it in an arc were thick Gothic black letters reading "LIBERTY."

"It ain't a fashion statement," he replied through his teeth. Then he plucked the cigarette from his lips and he exhaled directly at me, and his face was momentarily hidden by smoke. "It's for tear gas," he explained, and when the smoke cleared, he was still grinning.


	56. Part Six: Setting Things Right

Setting Things Right (the symbol returns)

I should note first of all that Kenny was being Kenny and he was joshing me a little, maybe just to scare me a little so that I'd really seriously consider if this was what I wanted to do. Tear gas wasn't frequently used as a deterrent in the US. Kenny told me he'd seen it once, but he hadn't been part of the mob at that time; he'd been a kid, only twelve or so, in the wrong place at the wrong time. He'd been downwind of it and caught just a whiff and boy, that shit got you good. That's what he told me.

Honestly, I hadn't even thought we still used tear gas. I didn't believe him at first, not until he later showed me a video on YouTube, where a riot was tear gassed during the 2005 inauguration of President Bush. It was surreal. It was something you'd expect to see in the streets of some Middle Eastern dictatorship, not in America, not in the land of the free. And yet they used it again at Michigan State, in Oakland, at Kent State. On teenagers. On Americans.

I was alarmed, don't get me wrong, but as I had promised Kenny quite some time ago, he would have to try harder than that to scare me off. To his credit, he rose to the challenge frequently enough.

It wasn't quite nine o'clock by the time we pulled out of South Park and hopped on I-25, heading north, towards Denver. Kenny didn't continue talking or ranting or recalling old memories or anything. He'd dropped that feverish excitement in favor of Hank Williams, who was drawling doggedly from the radio.

"I have to admit that I'm not a big country fan," I told him.

"But it's Hank Williams!" he exclaimed in astonishment, but not anger. "Hank Williams," he repeated, as though maybe saying it with more oomphmight remind me of who he was and why I was wrong.

"The worst offender," I replied.

"What the hell are you doing in the Midwest if you don't like country?"

"What the hell are you doing listening to songs made for good 'ol boys when you're protesting the war?"

"Hey," he said, and he looked at me purposely, all joking aside. "Look. I can disagree with what my country is doing and still care for it."

I was kind of surprised; I hadn't really expected to touch a nerve. "I didn't mean it like that," I amended.

"Well, I just want you to know. This country's a shithole, but it's my shithole. I just want you to understand that. You can't defend a thing you hate."

"I guess," I said.

He stubbornly let Hank croon off a few more songs, then he switched to Relient K, and the rest of the ride there was uneventful.

Denver is roughly a two hour drive away from South Park, but the thing is that it's a city, and we're not all that used to city driving or city navigating. It took us some time to find out where we were supposed to be going, (Kenny, being Kenny, was not all that specific about his directions) and we wound up arriving some time before noon at Civic Center Park, right smack in the middle of Downtown, right where all the action was. Civic Center Park is a very large community park in Denver that hosts many events throughout the year, including, I suppose, anti-war protestors. It was a high traffic area and there were sure to be a lot of passersby.

"Hey, look, I don't really recognize these people," Kenny muttered to me before we left the car. We were both looking at the small crowd, observing them, and honestly they seemed alright enough. No one looked like they were raring for a fight. "If anything bad goes down, you leave. You get out. You don't wait for me."

"What about you?" I asked.

"I'll get out too. I'm not gonna stick around if things get messy. I promise."

Naturally, this sort of talk resulted in me joining the group with a healthy bit of apprehension and dread, but it all seemed to be for nothing. Kenny quickly made friends with the dozen or so people there, and I just sort of walked around, minding my business, trying to seem as unapproachable as humanly possible. As a result, no one really bothered me, although I'm not sure what I'd been expecting. People quizzing me on how fast I could recall the war's figures that month? People standing in a circle and chanting like they were performing an exorcism? They were just regular people, laughing, joking, gently poking each other with their signs, standing around smoking cigarettes, listening to music; just people.

The apprehension came back when noon rolled around and I figured things would finally Get Serious. They sort of did, but they sort of didn't. I stepped off to the side because I didn't really want to be asked for my opinion or instructed to do anything; I just wanted to observe. The group split, little handfuls of threes and fours going off to different areas of the park. The joking attitude had died down a bit, but the atmosphere was still relaxed.

Kenny wound up with just himself and one other guy, (I suppose that, though I was still separating myself, people had realized I was sticking with Kenny) and they propped up their signs beside them so that they were free to talk with their hands. And they just talked. They stopped people walking by, if they could, if they wanted to; they didn't force anyone to stay. In calm voices they explained their stance and passed out little flyers and things with websites and lists of phone numbers and e-mails that people could use to get in contact with people in power; mayors, senators, congressmen. Every now and then some guy would get snappy with them, and they wouldn't budge. They'd stand there, talking, just trying to explain things.

I could tell Kenny was pleased with his partner, and oftentimes, when he wasn't in the middle of one of his little tangents, he was smiling. Kenny was always smiling, of course, but Kenny was really smiling. He liked doing this. He liked educating people, showing them the light, reasoning with the unreasonable. You could just see how pleased he was every time a stranger left them, looking puzzled, looking enlightened, even looking angry. Informing someone of something they didn't know before was precious to him, even if their reaction to it wasn't favorable.

You know, thinking about it, I think he might have made a good teacher. He was good with kids and he liked instructing, and I think it would have suited him, if he hadn't gone and wrecked everything like he had. He had potential; I could see it plain as day in front of me then. But potential is just that: a possibility. It's by no means a guarantee.

As the afternoon dragged on, less and less people started coming by. It was still just getting into spring, but after a long, cold winter, it felt pretty warm, and the sun was shining down on us. I was starting to feel tired and lazy after standing all day in the sun, and I was practically above to doze out on my feet. I was starting to regret having come when it was clear that, as Kenny had said, I was just a body, and it was clear that I didn't understand what any of this was about.

Nonetheless, I had achieved my goal: I had discovered that Kenny was not some insane, villainous, crazy peacenik, and whatever his opinions were on the war, he was rational about it all. I could at least rest easy knowing that Kenny wasn't crazy.

I was contemplating just going back to sit in the car to wait out the rest of the day since I wasn't really achieving anything. However, as I took a few steps closer to tell Kenny of my intentions, I realized the two were talking. So, being nosy, I got close enough to hear their conversation.

Kenny's partner that day was a large man named Kimo, a Hawaiian who was covered from head to toe in tattoos who had come from the Big Island to Colorado the previous year. As large as he was, he had a very soft voice, and even when he was mad, he gave you the impression that he was dealing with you gently. They were discussing Hawaii's induction into the US, it being the 50th state, and it didn't exactly go as I might have expected.

"I was under the impression that native Hawaiians hated being annexed by the US," Kenny was explaining. "This friend of mine, his family's from Hawaii and they go visit sometimes. But they're white, and he says they get shit sometimes for it, they get called 'haoles' sometimes. He says the locals give them dirty looks a lot."

"Well, sure, that happens," Kimo said, not even trying to sugarcoat it. "Non-Hispanic whites only make up about a quarter of the population of Hawaii, and you can just tell who lives there and who's just visiting. Most of the time, if you see a white guy walking around, he's just a tourist who thinks natives are part of the tour, like attractions, and he oogles at us and our sacred places like they're there for his amusement, like we're animals in a zoo. Not all white men are that way, but many are, and many Hawaiians become jaded to them because of it."

Kenny just groaned and put his hand over his face, shaking his head into it from the secondhand embarrassment. "That's just really shitty. I'm really sorry."

"You can't apologize for what other people do wrong," he said kindly. "But even though it happens, even though some Hawaiians are not very fond of continental Americans, I don't think most Hawaiians want to secede from the states. You know, in '59 when the vote was cast, something like 90% of Hawaiians voted to join the US in the first place."

"Really?" Kenny sounded surprised. "I always thought it had sort of just been claimed and then just annexed for profit, that no one there really wanted to be part of America in the first place."

"When it was a territory, yes, and I suppose even today there are some who still say that. There's people who say becoming a state really ruined Hawaii, but at the same time, it really boosted our economy. We're one of the most profitable states in the country now. So there is both bad and good in it."

"But then, it sort of depends on what you look at as success – profit or preservation. Whether or not you think selling out the state was worth it."

Kimo just sort of chuckled. "You're smart for your age, keiki. How old are you, fifteen, sixteen?"

"Seventeen," he corrected, a little embarrassed. "I look kinda young, I know."

"There's nothing wrong with that. It's nice to see youth involved. And your friend here, the one quiet as a clam-" He and Kenny had both turned to me at this point, and I averted my gaze from both of them. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but there we are. "Is he your age?"

"Yeah." I mentally tried to transmit to him through telepathy to not tell him my name, but it didn't work. "Craig. He's never really come out to one of these things before and he's shy."

I really only would like to point that that no one else in the entire universe had ever called me shy except for Kenny. Most called me other, less pleasant words like "anti-social" and "unfriendly" and "reclusive."

"Forgive me for asking Craig, but I'd like to use you to prove a point if you don't mind."

'What the hell,' I'd thought. I didn't think anything he could say could really bother me. So I stepped a little closer. "Sure."

"Do you mind too much if I ask you an intrusive question?"

An intrusive question, he said. I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Kenny asked me intrusive questions constantly; our second not-date he'd asked me how many inches and whether or not I swallowed. I thought something was wrong with him if he wasn't asking me intrusive questions. I didn't think a stranger could possibly ask me anything that would bother me. "Go for it."

"You're of mixed race, aren't you? Hispanic and white?"

I was stunned dumb for a few seconds. No one had ever just blatantly asked me outright like that. Even Kenny was kind of awkward at first, and he sort of looked away, maybe so that I wouldn't have to admit it to him. As was my tendency, I just answered his question. "Yeah, kinda."

"You're embarrassed of it?" he guessed.

I tensed up and bristled a bit. I wasn't up for being criticized for something like that today. "Not, like... ashamed or anything. I just try not to think about it."

"But it's a good thing, though. Almost everyone in Hawaii is a little mixed, you know. My maternal grandmother was Puerto Rican and my paternal grandfather was Filipino. They both immigrated to Hawaii to work on the sugar plantations when Hawaii was still a territory. I didn't have any of those cultural influences when I was raised, so it would be easy to forget them, but what fun would that be? That's forgetting part of who you are."

"I'm perfectly happy being who I am, thanks," I answered, wryly.

"Of course, I don't mean to insult you-"

"It's not insulting, I just prefer to not think about it. As far as I'm concerned, I'm white. End of story."

He nodded and said, "That's what I thought, thank you," and he returned to Kenny. I relaxed again. "Do you know how that Hawaii's population is about a million and a quarter, and do you know that there's only about 80,000 native Hawaiians?"

"No shit?" Kenny exclaimed.

"Compared to the roughly 40,000 US military personnel stationed there, it doesn't seem like a lot, does it?"

Kenny shook his head. "It's like, nothing. A drop in the bucket."

"But, am I included in those numbers?" Kimo asked him, rhetorically. "I'm native, Hispanic, and Asian. Well, 'Pacific Islander' is the term the US likes to use. But when statistics are released on race in my state, they're very, very detailed because there's so many different races there. There's many categories for mixed races and those categories are very specific. In the end, there's many people in Hawaii who consider themselves natives who are instead pigeonholed by the government as some other race due to their backgrounds."

"So, there's a lot more than 80,000 native Hawaiians, they're probably just classed under something else," Kenny clarified.

"Probably," he agreed. "But then, while I understand that the government just likes having numbers for reference, I wonder if it matters? If a man considers himself a native Hawaiian, even if a lot of his family is Asian, (as is common, as Asians make up about 30% of Hawaii) and he has grown up his entire life in the native culture, does he not deserve to call himself a native? Or Craig here," he said as he gestured to me. "He prefers that people look at him as a white man, which is understandable, because people are often under the impression that their lives would be easier if they were just seen as white. But is he wrong for ignoring his heritage, or is he in denial, or is he right to look at himself as he sees fit?"

Kenny obviously didn't want to answer for me, and he looked searchingly towards me to answer Kimo myself. So I did.

"I think people just need to shut the fuck up and stop making race a factor at all," I said flatly.

Kimo evidently found a good deal of humor in this, and he guffawed and his great shoulders shook as he laughed. "If it were that simple, then maybe many wars would be avoided," he told us. "And if they did, then the world would certainly be a much nicer place. It is a shame that it isn't, though, a shame."

It was early evening by the time the whole thing was done. There had been no major incidents, only a few minor disagreements, and no one's end of the day recollections involved anyone getting punched in the shnoz. Everyone was still in about the same mood they were when they'd arrived; a little more tired, but generally in good spirits and optimistic about their work that day. Just a lot of people standing around with signs, hoping they made a difference, and all they could really do was hope. There was no proof that anything they had done that day had mattered.

But, I figured, they had done it, and that little bit of hope was more than what they'd had to begin with.

Later, while we sat in the car and smoked before we started heading off, Kenny shared some of Kimo's story before I had butted in.

"He told me he was there atoning for his son," Kenny explained.

"Atoning, meaning...?"

"His son's in the Marines; that's why he was attracted to my sign and he wound up staying with me when everyone split. Kualii, that's his name. He got blown up a year ago and he's still undergoing rehab, but he's been suffering from PTSD. Hawaiians practice something called-" His face scrunched up and he spoke very slowly, trying very hard to get it right. "Ho'oponopono."

"Bless you," I said.

"It's like a way to make things right. He says he'd disagreed with his son's decision to enlist in the first place and they argued. He left on bad terms, and then he got blown up. I guess natives think anger causes illness, and that their anger is what's making it so hard for him to recover. There's like an official ritual they've done, but he does little things like this on the side to try and make him better, you know, try to set things right. It's almost like karma; I kinda like the whole concept of it."

"You'd think he would do things that directly affect his son," I said, probably a little insensitively.

Kenny just shook his head. "His son's still enlisted. He says the best way he can help him now is to convince the country that it doesn't need Marines anymore, and then maybe his son can come home for good." For some reason, after he finished saying this, he chuckled. "You know what he said about you at first?"

"What?" I asked, and I tried not to sound either defensive or curious.

"This was before I'd told him you were with me. He said he took one look at you and he thought, 'Pilikia.'"

"Would you mind translating?" I asked. I almost wish I hadn't.

"Trouble," he informed me, and he grinned.

I just put a hand over my face and sighed.

"Hey, he changed his mind after he talked to you," he rectified. "He said you remind him of his son. Proud, stubborn. He said things can feel rough outside and be sweet inside, like coconuts."

"He said I was trouble, then he said I was a coconut," I summed up dryly. Kenny seemed to think this summation was hilarious, and he chuckled until we'd snuffed out our cigarettes and drove off. Then, as if all of that weren't enough, he struck again.

"Y'know what I wanna do now?" Kenny asked.

"What?" I answered, knowing that it could be damn well anything under the sun at that point and I shouldn't even bother guessing. There was at least an 80% chance that it was going to be sexual in nature, anyway.

"I wanna get a tattoo."

While there were a lot of things I had been expecting, (and I wouldn't exactly have been surprised) I had not expected this. I glanced his way and raised a brow at him. "Why?" I asked.

"I asked Kimo about his and just, man, every one of them had a story dude, even the sleeves and stuff. It was amazing. I really want a tattoo that has a story like that."

"Well, go do something productive with your life and maybe you'll actually have an experience worth imprinting on your body."

"Come with me?" he pleaded. "Please?"

I stared at him, suspiciously. "What, right now?"

"Yeah dude, I wanna go get one right now."

"You can't, you're seventeen. You need to be eighteen to do it without your parents."

"Places like that don't always ask," he reasoned.

"Yeah, except you look like you're fifteen or something, keiki."

"Shut up," he pouted. But he was driving around, intentionally choosing not to get back on the freeway, and I had a feeling I'd be accompanying him whether I liked it or not.

"I've always wanted angel wing tattoos," he mused. "Like, folded up on my back."

I was not impressed. "The most generic back tattoos that exist?"

"Yeah, I like them. But big ones like that are really expensive, I can't afford that shit."

"Even a small tattoo is gonna be expensive, probably at least a hundred bucks."

"I could get a really small one for fifty," he reasoned.

"You know what else you could get for fifty bucks?" I asked, and then I listed them off. "Food, clothes, gas; things you need."

"Immaterial," he said dismissively.

"You kinda need food to live, Ken."

But, as always, it was pointless arguing with him. He kept driving around, kept trying places who would do one for him, and they all turned him down. Though he wasn't really short, he did look very young, and this was a bit of a curse of his.

"Assholes," he kept muttering after about an hour and a half of unsuccessful tattoo getting.

"It's for the best," I said. "You'd regret wasting the money on a whim like that."

"Maybe you're right," he'd agreed, and we jumped onto I-25 and started heading back home.

A few days later, he had a bandage on the back of his neck, just where it connected with his back, and all I had to do was glare for him to come clean.

"I just dragged my pa 'round to one. He don't care, he just thought it was stupid I couldn't get one on my own and that he even had to come."

I didn't even bother to hide or disguise the condemnation in my reply. "You had your drunk father give consent for you to get a tattoo?"

"He was pretty sober at the time," he answered defensively.

The bandage came off shortly after, and I was surprised at what I saw. It couldn't have been two inches long, but it was the symbol: an infinity symbol over the word "love."

"Why the hell did you get that of all things?" I asked.

"Because it's a story for me to tell," he explained. "All of Kimo's tattoos were unique to him, things that made sense only to him. This only makes sense to me. And to you, I guess."

I didn't want to be too negative or condescending, but I couldn't help it. "Ken, it's on the back of your neck. You can't even see it."

He answered immediately, like he'd been anticipating that I would say that, exactly that, and he was already ready for it. "But I know that it's there," he assured me. "You can't see love either, right? You can't prove it's there. It's just a feeling. But if you know it's there, then that's all that matters."

I just shrugged. It was Kenny's body; if he wanted to put stuff on it, stuff he couldn't even appreciate, that was his call. I was by no means going to antagonize someone over body modification – I had stopped doing the mohawk thing with my hair, but I'd gotten a few more piercings in the past few months, two more on each ear. I intended to get snake bites at some point, but my parents were pretty up in the air on that one.

Thus ended my first foray into Kenny's exciting little world. It turned out to not be very exciting at all, I'll admit, but it was relevant. And besides, like a cigarette, one would inevitably lead to another, and I'd be hooked before I even realized it. There would be more, many more, and there would also be May Day. But before all of that happens, before we come any closer to the pending apocalypse, I've got a few last minute things to settle with you. Some of it's about Kenny, but a lot of it's about Tweek.


	57. Part Six: Blind Jabs

Blind Jabs

Tweek was staring at me from across the room, drawing in sharp pants in small doses and snarling at me, or rather, slightly to the side of me. Sweat kept running into his left eye and he kept trying to swat it off, and when he continued to be unsuccessful, he gave up, and just kept that eye closed tight instead. This left him fighting almost blind, because I'd decked him in his right eye earlier, and he probably only managed to keep it open through sheer force of will.

I wasn't faring too much better. He had managed to elbow me right in the jaw and it hurt, enough that I was having trouble just holding onto my mouth guard. I was still dizzy from his last uppercut, and I knew he was just waiting for me to come in close, just waiting for me to drop my guard and take a jab at him so he could rear back and take a blind swing at me with one of his haymakers. Neither of us was bleeding yet, but we were plenty battered; I'd be a canvas of bruises before this was over.

We slowly drew closer to each other, him hopping and bouncing and moving constantly, never standing still, and me taking light, cautious steps, my arms up, ready to duck at the first sign of him winding up for the pitch. He kept blinking, fighting to keep his eyes on me, and I knew that was going to have to be my advantage.

I started moving around, suddenly, chaotically, not attacking him but never staying long enough for him to blink twice. I was disorienting him; we turned and turned and he tried to follow me, blinking rapidly, and I knew I was making him nervous, especially because there was no pattern, there was no logic to it. He began swinging blind, just trying to land something on me long enough to slow me down, and every time he let his guard up, I got a hit in on him. I thought if I just kept circling him, just kept getting in those little hits, I'd eventually land one that would finish him.

I saw him rear back for what looked like a haymaker, and I easily dodged out of the way. At first, as he missed, he stumbled forward, as I knew he would, and I prepared to take a jab right at his head to finish him off. But he caught himself too quickly. I think it had been a fake; a haymaker is supposed to involve pretty much all of your strength, pretty much hitting someone for everything you've got, and there was no way he would have recovered that quickly if he'd really just thrown away all of his strength.

Before I could land, he blinked once, got eyes on me, blinked twice, and then threw a hardfisted punch right at me, and I took it full on. I thought that might be it for me, I thought I might go down, but I managed to retaliate with one solid hook to his temple, and he was the one who went down. He stumbled to the ground, holding his head, barely holding himself up, and I dove on top of him, only managing to nail him once more before he tapped out. It was just as well; I didn't think I had it in me to punch him any more.

While I technically won, I don't think either of us were really victorious that time. We both fell onto the ground and gasped and quietly suffered from our various injuries. As always, once I collected myself, I threw out my mouth guard and began checking my teeth. I tasted blood and I'd thought I might have lost one, but they all seemed accounted for, and I figured at that point that I must have just bit my tongue somehow.

Tweek had pulled himself up and he was sitting hunched over, holding onto his legs, and panting weakly in between his knees. When he caught his breath, he eventually praised me, "Nice hook at the end there."

"Yeah, thanks." I pulled myself up and tried to help him up as well, but he just waved me away. He was too dizzy to stand yet, and he just fell back onto his carpet, and he sighed, contentedly. I didn't care; at least he wasn't freaking out.

"More?" he asked. He couldn't even stand yet and he was thinking about the next round.

"Nah, I'm done."

"Kay." He tried to wipe the sweat out of his eyes again, and he was finally starting to open them a little, finally starting to see again. He continued to favor his right eye, but at least he wasn't totally blind. "Woo, man. I'm beat. It's been a while."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Too long." We hadn't fought in a good month or so, and we'd just knocked each other senseless three times in the past thirty or forty minutes. That last match had secured my victory for the day, 2 to 1. It felt good to unleash a little, to just punch someone over and over again without worrying about the consequences. I wasn't ordinarily a violent person, but nothing really got out your frustrations like fighting someone until you couldn't move anymore. So that's exactly what I did.

I wiped myself off with a towel and guzzled a bottle of water real quick, and by the time Tweek finally started stirring and thinking about getting up off the ground, I'd collapsed into his bed, face first, holding onto the pillow and burying my face in it. And then I just didn't move.

I presume Tweek did roughly the same as me; wiping off the sweat, hydrating, checking himself for anything potentially broken or dislocated, and then he switched the music over to something chill. I instantly started to relax as the frantic beat died down to something slow and melodic, and then, as exhausted as I was, I probably could have fallen asleep right there. It was late, some time well after midnight. It was Sunday, (I guess by that point it was technically Monday) and we really should have been in bed. We had school the next day. I'd been up early to see Kenny and then spent all day working, but exhaustion hadn't hit me until now.

That's why we fought like this; sometimes it was the only way either of us could get tired when we were feeling wound up.

When he was ready, he flipped off the light and jumped onto the bed beside me. He asked the same question he always did.

"Smoke?" 

"Cig tonight," I answered. Some people smoke cigarettes after sex; we smoked after fighting. It's what we did. Funny, I'd never noticed the correlation until now.

Tweek nudged me and I wearily held out a hand with my palm open, into which he dropped a cigarette. A Newport, I think it was. Tweek was the only motherfucker in South Park that smoked Newports.

I rolled over onto my side and let him light it for me, and then I just lay there. He put an ashtray in between us and he laid down too, this time too tired to doodle or even talk. I was still rubbing my jaw where I was anticipating a good bruise would come in soon, and I stretched it out a couple of times before I suddenly just yawned. Christ, I was exhausted.

We'd both finished our cigarettes and put out the butts before he had anything to say, and I was hardly paying attention. I was starting to drift off.

"You doin' anything this summer?" he asked.

"Not that I've planned yet," I answered. "I'm sure I'll keep occupied somehow."

"I'm picking up more work hours in the coffee shop."

"Again?" I replied blankly. He used to only work one or two days a week and then only assisted with a few basic chores in between. He'd already increased his work hours a few months ago, and if he was doing it again, he'd be working pretty much every day. The fact that he was becoming such a workaholic was uncharacteristic. "How come?"

"I could use some extra cash and, well, shit, I'm not doing anything these days anyway."

I realized this was his subtle way of saying, without outright saying, in not so many words, that he missed hanging out with me. Tweek didn't really do much if it wasn't with me, and as I'd mentioned, I'd begun spending almost all of my free time with Kenny. It couldn't be helped.

I wasn't about to apologize for that shit, though. Him having abandonment issues wasn't my problem. "Well, that's cool."

"Yeah, my parents are happy. They're convinced that summertime is going to be busy this year." Tweek rolled his eyes. "Because everyone wants a hot cup of coffee on a summer day."

"Of course." 

Tweek picked up the ashtray from between us and put it aside. Then he just fell back into the sheets and stuffed the pillow under his head, punching it into the shape he wanted, and he fell into it. At that point we were both lying next to each other, but he was facing away from me, and I was facing his back. We might have fallen asleep like this; we had before. It wasn't really weird or awkward for us to share a bed. But he continued to talk, and though I was tired, his voice kept me from finding dreamland.

"So, you know, have you talked to Kenny about...?"

I sighed deeply, mostly because I was tired of having to address this 'Kenny' problem that never seemed to die, but I had no energy left to do more than that. I'd decided to stop being so angry about my friends being so nosy about my relationship. It was my first one, after all, and they'd known me for a long time.

I replied, "He basically confirmed that he's a political activist. That's all. And frankly, I already knew that, so really I was right; he wasn't lying."

"What about the other thing?"

I thought of lying and saying that he was fine and that I'd made sure of it, but what would be the point of that? This was just Tweek; it wasn't like lying to him would solve anything. "I didn't ask."

"You didn't ask?" he said, alarmed.

"Yeah, I just...I don't know. I don't know how you ask someone something like that. It's just a really sensitive thing, you know."

"You've never been weird about asking sensitive things before," he reasoned. It was probably a lot easier for him to talk like this when he was facing away from me.

"Yeah, well, I've never had to ask someone if they were suicidal before," I rebutted. "But, honestly, I really don't think he is. I don't get that from him."

"Do you want me to ask?"

"Why would you ask?" I said dryly. "You two don't like each other anymore, remember?"

"Yeah, but, he tried to get sleeping pills off of me once."

More stories I couldn't confirm. "Is that so?"

"Yeah man, you know I always have like, a million bottles of sleeping pills because I don't take them and my parents just keep refilling my prescription. I told Kenny I'd thought about downing the whole lot of 'em before, and he asked if he could have some before I did." Again, the fact that he was so calm and so indifferent about confiding this in me was just kind of disturbing to me. I think he sensed that, because he immediately added, "I wouldn't really take them. I've just thought about it, and that was a long time ago."

"Yeah, you've said." I rolled over and turned away from him, and while I was on the move, I picked myself up and slid underneath the covers. I kind of wanted to take a shower since I was still kind of sweaty and sticky, but I figured since I was there, I may as well just stay the night. I reached out and grabbed my phone off of his bedside table and started shooting a text to my mom to tell her I was staying the night at Tweek's, (she would not be pleased about this on a school night, but she would allow it) and I think Tweek thought I was doing it to ignore him, because he apologized.

"I'm sorry man, I don't mean to be all down and stuff about him. When we stopped talking, it just sort of left a sour aftertaste, if you dig it."

I shrugged, and then realized he couldn't see it. "I don't think he holds a grudge against you. He just figures you have different ideals. I mean, at least he's actually doing something about his beliefs."

"Yeah, I guess," he agreed easily.

"I've been going to rallies with him," I said. I don't know why I brought it up just then; it was pretty bad timing for it. I hadn't even told Clyde yet or anything. But there it was, out in the open.

"Rallies?" he answered, suddenly sounding very alarmed. "What kind? What the hell for?"

"Like, you know." Again, I shrugged into the pillow; it was really hardly worth calling those little gatherings we'd gone to 'rallies,' but I didn't know what other word to use for it. "Sometimes we go up to Denver and stand around with signs or something. It's not like, really hardcore or anything. Usually they just hold up signs and talk to people about why the war should end. Sometimes there's a guy with a microphone or something prattling on and on but like, that's it. I've only been to three." You already know the first one, but there had been two others over that past weekend, one on Friday and one on Saturday, all of them building up to whatever May Day was. They had both been as uneventful as the first.

Tweek was not in the least bit comforted by my description. He had sat up and turned over, leaning towards me on one arm. I glanced over my shoulder at him; I could clearly see his face contorted with worry in the shadows. As if that weren't enough, he started stuttering, then I knew he was getting anxious. "Craig, you...you can't go to these things, you j-just, it's bad stuff man, what if you g-get in trouble?"

"I won't," I assured him. "We don't do anything troublesome. Like the only time a cop ever bothers us is if we're holding up traffic or something. First amendment man, freedom to peacefully assemble. Remember?"

"But what if it's not peaceful?" he worried. "What if s-something happens and you get hurt?"

"Kenny says there hasn't been a serious outbreak during one of these things in a long time."

"'Kenny says,'" Tweek repeated scornfully. "Why the hell do you b-believe what Kenny says?"

"Because he hasn't lied to me yet," I snapped over my shoulder. I heard him choke down his usual verbal tic. "And he's totally rational and sane and I wish people would just back off already when they don't fucking know him; you don't even fucking know what he thinks, you're just throwing blind fucking jabs and hoping you hit something eventually." As I'd requested, Tweek backed off.

"S-sorry," he mumbled.

"Look, if anything bad goes down, I'll be the first one to see my way out of it. You know that." He didn't answer right away, so I pressed him. "You know that, right?"

"Yeah," he replied, not very strongly. I felt like he was holding back on me and it was killing him, it was ready to burst out of him, and he just wouldn't say it. It pissed me off.

I decided that I didn't feel like staying the night anymore. I didn't feel tired anymore; I'd just gotten all worked up again, and I just didn't particularly feel like being near Tweek anymore. So I just sighed and flung my legs off of the bed, and then I stood up.

"Sorry," Tweek hurriedly said as I moved away. He never did catch on that I hated apologies. "I wasn't trying to s-say anything bad about Kenny. You know he just m-makes me nervous."

"It's fine," I grumbled. I didn't really feel like being mad at him. I just got my things together so that I could leave, and I grabbed my shoes and returned to the edge of the bed to pull them on.

"Are you g-gonna keep going to these things?" he asked.

"Yeah," I answered. "There's a big one coming up on Tuesday. Kenny keeps calling it 'May Day.'"

"It is May Day on Tuesday," he pointed out. "M-may 1st."

"Yeah, I guess it is."

"Just b-be careful, okay?" he pleaded. "I'm just w-worried what's gonna happen t-to you if you get wrapped all up in his b-bullshit. You never cared b-before and now all of a sudden you're g-going to rallies and shit and-"

"I'm just going to see what they're about. That's all."

"Just don't get hurt." I'd finished pulling on my shoes and I rose again from the bed, and I didn't answer him right away. "Craig?"

"Stop worrying," I told him. I hoisted my bag up on my shoulder and headed for the door. I tried to see as apathetic and calm as I always was. Pretending to be it was a lot harder than actually being it. "I'll be fine. Go to sleep."

"Nggh, yeah, like that's gonna happen any time soon..."

I left him that night and I went to Kenny's instead. He wasn't really thrilled about being woken up in the middle of the night, but when I told him I had no intentions of going to school that next day, he concurred. He said he was feeling a little restless about Tuesday, and he'd probably just skip that next day of school too. The school year was winding down at that point anyway; we were mere weeks away from summer vacation. A day missed here or there didn't really matter.

I originally went to him because I just wanted some reassurance that everything was going to be alright; I figured I'd just talk to him and listen to him let him assure me that nothing was going to go wrong on May Day.

But instead, he ended up leaning me over his desk and pounding me for twenty minutes, on his tip toes because I'd gotten to be a few inches taller than him and it was a little difficult for him to reach. I bent my knees to try to come down to his level, and he rammed me like a damn jackhammer. I could hardly stand when he was done; I just rest my whole upper body on his shoddy wooden desk, burying my moans into my arms while I barely held my own body weight on my shaking legs, and I hadn't even finished yet. He'd knelt behind me then, spreading my cheeks and licking up the mess he'd made and steadily jerking me off until I came in his hand, and then he licked that up too, and I was too exhausted to even reprimand him.

I was finally able to sleep that night, and thank God; I'd needed it bad. I was so out of it that Kenny had practically had to carry me back to the bed after that. All of the other stuff was put on hold in favor of me finally getting a good night of sleep, which was good, because the real nightmare hadn't even started yet.


	58. Part Six:Bemused Wondering of a Vagabond

The Bemused Wondering of a Vagabond

That Monday was, for the most part, uneventful. Although, anything would have seemed uneventful before May Day, I guess.

We did in fact ditch school. It turns out that, during the day, his parents did actually go out and work sometimes. Lord knows what they did, but by the time we woke up some time in the late morning, they were gone. I swallowed my pride enough to eat a bowl of Frosted Flakes (attempting to ignore the fact that there was hardly a bowl's worth left when we were done) and we had coffee, instant, with Baileys. Kenny was pleased.

"I don't get to use it when they're here," he explained. "They say a punk like me don't need to be anywhere near the hard stuff."

"And yet here you are, on the road to becoming an alcoholic," I commented. He'd used a lot of Baileys for an awful small amount of coffee.

"Shoot, this ain't nothin'. If I really wanted to get shitfaced, there's a bottle of Jack in the living room I could use instead. I like Baileys because it tastes good, not 'cause it'll get me drunk. I probably got nine or ten different ways I could get me drunk without my parents noticing. It'd be a damn cakewalk for me to get wasted if I really wanted. Wanna know why I don't?"

"Why?" I asked, because it was expected of me to ask.

"Because they do," he said. It was all he said regarding it.

We sat around and indulgently basked in laziness all day. We watched old Bogey movies (Kenny's choice) one or two Disney movies (may or may not have been my choice) and we lounged in bed and boned a good three times over the course of the day, and we only stopped because Kenny's little sister came home from school.

By the time evening had crept up on us, Kenny's parents still were nowhere to be found, (he assured me that this wasn't altogether uncommon) and he started talking about frozen waffles for dinner, and I just gave in and offered to buy pizza for us. As Kenny had promised, Karen spent her fair share of time tittering at me, especially after the pizza. I'm not really sure if at that point she was aware that I was banging her brother.

I avoided my phone as much as I could except to text my mother that I was staying the night at Tweek's again (she didn't like this and gave me a lot of shit over it, but she folded) though Tweek himself still had a lot to say about my pending participation in May Day. Throughout the day I continued to receive little texts here and there, and after a while, culminating in the late evening, I had a lot to say about his persistent nosiness.

"Why are you so obsessed with hating Kenny?" I asked him, upfront. I'd finally gotten tired of his prying texts and I'd decided to just straight up call him. I was leaning against a wall in the corner of his room; Kenny was laying on his bed playing PSP, pretending not to care. I could have gone somewhere to take a private phone call and he wouldn't have asked twice, but I had no interest in hiding things from him, even if it was a possibility that he was still hiding things from me.

"I don't hate him," he began, and I interrupted him.

"Well, you sure as hell don't like 'im."

"You know why, Craig," he answered. He didn't sound freaked or anything; just a little anxious. His words were lacking their usual spinelessness and instead were unusually stern. "I don't trust him. I got a full dose of him before you did. If he's acting chill and sane now, it's 'cause he realized he wasn't achieving anything by being a lunatic."

"Great, is that what you think now?" I asked dryly. "I thought you said he was 'bad news.' And then just last night you agreed-"

"He is bad news," he insisted stubbornly. "And you know he's hiding things from you and you keep defending him. If you at least acknowledged that he was no good, if you'd at least stop pretending..."

"You know, none of this ever came up until we started seeing each other. You didn't have two words to say to me about Kenny until he started stealing me away."

Tweek just scoffed at me. "Craig, the fact that you've been reduced to calling me 'jealous' to derail me is enough to convince me that I'm right."

For the record, Tweek was a lot braver on the phone than he was in real life; on the phone he was talking to a machine, not a human. It's a lot easier to deal with him face to face. In reality, he was nervous, meek, and trusting. Over a phone, where he could maintain his wits, he could be a fucking dick. Most of this had probably been bottled up from the previous night and he'd just been too chickenshit to say it then to my face. You can only imagine how this frustrated me.

"Yeah, well, I still find it hard to believe that everything you guys have said is true."

"Of course you do; you still won't even ask him for all the answers yet. You still just keep deluding yourself every time we try to help."

"You're starting to sound like Clyde," I informed him, humorlessly. Not that it had anything to do with anything, not that it was even a relevant retort. I wasn't really used to having to argue with Tweek. Usually I just had to find something to say that would crack his armor a bit.

"Does that mean that maybe you'll listen to me?"

"Fuck man, if I had listened to Clyde I'd have stopped hanging out with you years ago."

That got to him a little, I think. He started to fall apart a bit. His steadfast, confident persona had started to fade. "Don't go tomorrow," he begged. "Please man, please. I got a bad feeling about it."

"You get bad feelings about everything. You get bad feelings about going to the grocery store."

"Craig, please, I really don't think I'm just being paranoid. This has been eating at me all d-day. I almost called Clyde-"

"Don't tell anyone," I ordered him. Now he'd definitely started to lose some of his nerve, and I heard him swallow a squeaky little 'ngh'. "Don't tell Clyde or my parents or anything. They'll just get all pissed off for no reason.

"It's not for no reason, it's because-"

"Don't tell anyone," I pressed, more urgently. "Promise me you won't."

"Agh..." He was silent for a few seconds before he shakily agreed. "Alright."

"Good." I glanced over at Kenny and he was still contentedly playing PSP. He hardly seemed to realize I was there. "Listen, I'm gonna go. I'll swing by and see you tomorrow when we get back."

"Please just be careful," he pleaded. "You d-don't know how far Kenny might go, or what he might be c-capable of."

"Goodnight, Tweek." I tapped my phone to hang up.

"You're really cold towards your friends," Kenny observed.

"Only when they try to get all up in my business. Clyde I know's gonna mother me, but Tweek, fuck, I used to never have to worry about him."

"What makes you want to stand up for me?" Kenny hadn't looked away from his PSP; it was like the answer was completely frivolous to him, and he was just talking, just shooting the shit. He wanted really, really badly for me to think he didn't care, so I pretended that I thought he didn't care.

"I'm not really standing up for you," I said, though not in as frustrated a tone as I'd reprimanded Tweek. It held a different connotation to say you were 'standing up' for something. Being defensive was indignant denial; standing up for something was almost heroic, in the romantic notion sort of way.

"I know what your friends say about me," he told me. He continued to speak in an even tone, as though the topic he was discussing was absolutely inconsequential. "You don't even have to tell me what Tweek said. I understand why they think what they think. My friends think badly of you for a lot of the same reasons."

"I don't exactly start screaming at my teachers because they disagree with my opinion," I replied dryly.

Kenny peered up from his game with a little smile. He didn't deny it. "No, but you pick more fights than you should with everyone else. At least when I fight, I have a purpose."

"Other people pick fights with me, " I corrected.

" Pilikia ," he accused me. He had returned to his PSP, but he was still grinning.

"You know why I keep telling my friends to buzz off when they start getting pissed off about you?" He hummed, curiously, but he didn't exactly ask. I didn't wait. "Because I feel like you have an undeserved reputation. Because I don't think anyone really understands what makes you tick."

"Is that so," he said, mildly. "So, you're standing up for me because I'm you. You have an undeserved reputation, which, from what I hear around the rumor mill, isn't so undeserved. You don't wanna believe bad things about someone you-" He paused just long enough for us both to think something along the lines of 'someone you care about ' and then he concluded, properly, "-don't think deserves it."

As usual, I didn't like what he was saying, only because I had a sinking suspicion that he was right. "If you're gonna get all psychoanalytical on me, I can leave," I said curtly.

"Just making an observation," he replied, coolly. He still outwardly appeared engrossed by his game, apparently no more bothered by my response than if I had said nothing at all. But for as much as he tried to come off as phlegmatic, you could still tell. He cared. And as always, the fact that he did bothered me.

In the end, we settled our problems by doing what we always did: by having sex. I flipped off the lights and crawled into bed with him, although when I say that, what I really mean is that I crawled over his legs and up his chest and I pushed his game out of the way and I dove down and assaulted his mouth. He didn't need much convincing to throw the console aside and engage in a fiercely impromptu make-out that ended with me sitting against his wall and him sitting on my lap. He was grinding against me, slowly, feeling how every inch of me snugly fit inside him while he took deep breaths, moving just enough to make a little friction, keeping us both in desperate suspense but never actually getting anywhere.

I could feel his hard-on twitching against my stomach and hear his heart pounding in his chest, hear the soft little cries he swallowed in my ear while he rest his chin on my shoulder, and I couldn't even move; if I moved an inch I'd cum and it'd be over, I knew it would, so I just let him barely move on top of me, going so slow, so fucking slow until he started lifting himself and then gently coming back down, and I could feel him clenching around me and feel his arms shaking and feel his precum drip down my stomach while he tortured both of us for an agonizingly long time, and finally my head fell back and I cried out and I thrust up into him a few times and lost it. But he didn't cum, didn't even try to finish even when it was painfully obvious I had, when I'd wilted so much I could hardly keep it inside him anymore.

"Can you go again?" he breathed in my ear.

I was leaning against his wall, practically dead; it'd been my fourth time that day, not even including the frenzy I'd walked into the night before, and I didn't think I'd be able to get it up again if I was told I could squirt liquid gold. I just wasn't made for that shit, nonstop endless orgasms, one right after the other.

But I said, "Yeah, just, gimme a few minutes."

And he did, and he just kissed me and rubbed against me and pet me, and to keep him occupied I reached between us and stroked him, taking his lead and going slow, tortuously slow, until he was sighing into my ear, needy, desperate, and finally, (it definitely felt like a lot longer than a few minutes) I was hard enough to go inside him again. He braced himself on my shoulders and rode me, slow at first, like before, and then all at once, with no warning, hard, pounding himself onto me relentlessly, and I was only able to last as long as I did because, though I'd managed to get it up enough for him to ride me, I still hadn't entirely recovered.

I held onto him tightly while he moved, drinking in the moans he was trying to muffle in my neck while his hair tickled under my chin and relishing the sharp sting of his nails digging into my back and how his cock was just leaking all down my stomach while he rubbed it greedily against me for stimulation. I'd never seen or heard him act so desperate before; I'd never heard him cry like that before. He couldn't even talk, couldn't do anything but sigh breathy moans and cry out every time he let himself fall onto my cock and it went deep inside him.

For once, he came before me, and I felt him squeeze down on me and he bit down hard on my neck to stifle his groan and he almost let me slip out of him, withdrawing just enough until he could rub the tip of my cock right against his sweet spot, right where he needed it, and fuck, he just kept making these disgustingly sexual noises, smooth, throaty groans that slowly faded away into crying sighs, and his cum was hot and streaking and dripping down my stomach and he kept rubbing against it, smearing it around, and I only had to hold onto him and roughly buck my hips a few times before it was over for me too. The orgasm trickled through me sort of lazily, very unlike the usual rapidly engulfing euphoria that usually struck me when I finished. I didn't care.

I was so tired and so content I just fell against the wall, helplessly, my legs splayed out in front of me, absolutely no strength in me. Kenny was leaning completely into me with that same total abandon, and eventually we just slid down the wall until we were both just lying there, him still on top of me, buried in between my neck and my shoulder, both of us drowned in sweet exhaustion.

I was used to sex with Kenny being rough and fast and hard; going slow like that was just mind-blowing for me. I literally could not move for several long minutes, no more than to just slightly move my hips so that my totally spent cock could fall out of him, and he laid on top of me without moving, not even to settle into a more comfortable position. He was fully limp and motionless. It was some time later before I finally opened my eyes and realized that he'd knocked out; I could hear him snoring.

"Hey," I'd grunted at him. "Hey, get up. Get off."

He hadn't even responded. All I could do was roll over a bit to drop him off of me, and he plopped down onto the bed like a rag doll. I'd never seen him so spent after sex before; it was kind of weird and unexpected for him, and it was also kind of cute. I remember it made me just lay there and smile at him for what felt like a long time; I may have dozed in and out at some point. I remember thinking how happy he made me and that no one else really understood that. But, I still didn't think about loving him, not yet. That I'd like to make clear.

I had enough strength left myself to roll him over again, and then I settled in behind him and threw my arm over him, pulling him close, burying my face into his messy nest of blond hair and breathing him in until I passed out again.

As always, Kenny so excruciatingly warm that I was almost sweating lying next to him. As such, when I realized I was cold, I rolled myself awake and groggily looked around for him. It was still dark, but he wasn't in bed. I had to blink a few times to find him, but I did: he'd pulled in a chair from somewhere, the kitchen maybe, and he was leaning outside his window and smoking. He'd pulled on some sweat pants and another tank top, and I thought, Christ, this kid was crazy. Spring or not, in the middle of night in the mountains, it was freezing. I realized just how cold it was when I saw little white flakes scattered on his floor in the moonlight; the snow had returned, just when you thought it was finally gone. It always did that.

"Hey," I called to him. "Close the window, asshole. It's fucking cold; what's wrong with you?" My words were slurring with sleepiness, but I don't think I sounded angry. I'm pretty sure he knew that, especially because he just grinned at me.

"Sorry," he said. "I needed some air."

"What time is it?"

"Uh, nearly four, something like that."

"Fuck..." I dug my head under the pillow and pulled his blanket over me and hid as well as I could from that invading draft. I heard him chuckle.

"Hey, you'd have to wake up soon anyway. We gotta be in Denver pretty early today."

"Bite me," I mumbled into the pillow. I'm not sure if he heard me, he didn't answer.

Eventually, I heard him close the window and then step lightly back to the bed. He didn't lay back down; he just sat on the edge and pulled the blanket off of me and started stroking my bare back. I didn't mind; in any other situation I would have tensed up and felt very uncomfortable, but I didn't mind when he did it, just him. It nearly put me to sleep again, but then he started talking, and talking always keeps me awake.

"I been wondering about a lot of stuff lately," he told me. He didn't seem to expect an answer, so I didn't offer him one. I just laid there. There was a weird inflection in his voice, one I hadn't noticed until just that. Sort of wistful, sort of melancholy. "Y'know, like, everything. Sometimes it just hits me all at once, you know? Stupid shit I know I can't know the answers to, shit like, why am I here and all that."

"You're here 'cause you were born here," I said. "Your folks got frisky one night and presto: you. That easy. There's no greater purpose."

"Yeah, I know," he agreed.

This prompt concession irritated me. Why even bring it up if he knew that it was pointless? I wondered that. "If you know that, then why are you wondering about it?"

"Why not?" he challenged. "Maybe there's no greater purpose, but I do believe in destiny. I wonder what I'm heading for in the end. I feel like I know where to go by now, but not why, I haven't gotten that far yet."

"Why do you need to know that?" I asked. Kenny always seemed to come off as a take-it-as-it-comes kinda guy. I'd asked him before about his plans after high school and he'd sort of shrugged and stupidly grinned, like, well, fuck, I ain't even thought about it. But I suppose it hadn't really been that simple.

"I've sort of always had a pretty unstable life," he said. It was at this point that it occurred to me that he wasn't so much talking to me as he was talking at me. He continued to sound strange to me, like the way he was talking, he was hoping he might suddenly stumble upon an epiphany. "Nothin's ever really gone right for me, everything's always just kinda been shit. And I feel like I just keep goin' 'round in circles and I just keep resetting and starting over right where I was. I just wanna feel like I'm achieving something for once. I don't want to just be here and not matter, like if I just disappeared one day, the whole world could just keep rolling right along like it always does."

I just listened to his voice and let him rub my back and I shuddered from his cold touch on my flesh. He was dangerously close to saying what I was afraid he would say, and I guess I thought that if I just let him keep going, he might eventually get there himself. He didn't. I think he realized he was saying things he shouldn't be and he switched topics.

"I always thought about just running away," he told me.

"Yeah?" I answered, just because it was something to say.

"I don't know where, I don't know why. I wouldn't really achieve anything by running away."

"No, you wouldn't," I assured him. "Not to mention it's completely idiotic to think of doing."

"Is it?" he asked. He sounded distracted; I continued without acknowledging this.

"For one, you'd need plenty of money, and a more reliable car than that shitheap of an El Camino."

"Hey, I done fixed her up pretty good at this point, ain't I?" He had; the El Camino was in significantly better condition than when he'd first obtained it. I wasn't about to admit that, though.

"But you're poor as dirt and you don't got the money to be runnin' away. Just 'cause you're life's unstable here don't mean abandoning all stability is gonna fix it."

"But wouldn't it be great?" Kenny continued, pensively. "Just drivin' along, city to city, never knowin' where I'm gonna end up next. New places to eat every day, new places to sleep every night..."

"No stability," I repeated. "Nowhere to call your own, no place to go if things turn ugly, entirely dependent on money and your car, no real plan, no real idea of just what the hell you're doing with yourself until you wind up a homeless vagrant begging on a street corner in some city you aren't even sure how or why you wound up in."

"As always, you're a shining ray of optimism," he teased.

"I just don't buy it, sorry. Yeah you got problems, we all got problems, what the hell is running away gonna fix?"

"What does anything we do really fix in the end?" he contemplated. "You'll finish school and go to college and get a nice nine to five and, what, is that really more productive than being a street vagrant?"

"In the grand scheme of things, yeah."

He snorted and then repeatedly, disdainfully, "The grand scheme of things." Kenny was still stroking my back, sort of absently. His touch was so faint that there were times I could hardly tell his fingers were still moving across my skin. I wanted to roll over and see his face so he could just grin at me like he always did, but I felt like if I tried, there wouldn't be anything remotely close to a grin there. "You could see the whole world, Craig, you could just make the whole world your home. There's so much more out there than what we have here. Wouldn't it be amazing to see it? Even just for a few years? I mean, if we left, just up and left for a few years, no one would even notice dude, it's liked that-" He snapped his fingers. "-in your little 'grand scheme.' We could stop pretending for a while, go do something real."

"Do you think you're not doing something real here?" I asked. "What about finishing school, what about the protests?" Then, against my better judgment, I added, "What about me?"

Thankfully, he didn't tease me this time. He just sort of hummed. "Well, I guess even if I wound up some wondering vagabond, I wouldn't really be able to run away, not from what I want to get away from."

Perhaps I should have pursued other pieces of that sentence, but I didn't. I have avoidance issues, remember? And when I avoid, I cavil. "It's 'wandering. A vagabond 'wanders,' not 'wonders.' Common mistake."

"Who's to say it was a mistake?" he countered. Now returned the other Kenny, the nonsense and philosophical one. "Who's to say a vagabond can't wonder as well as wander?"

"Its definition," I answered bluntly. "Vagabond literally means 'a wanderer.'"

"Spare me," he replied, sounding immeasurably bored. "Words only mean what you think they mean."

"If words only meant what you thought they meant, then we wouldn't have any need for dictionaries. Words have meaning for a reason."

"They only mean something if you tell people they mean something."

I felt like he was purposely being thick with me again, maybe even just trying to get a rise out of me, but knowing everything meant that I couldn't just sit by and let him get away with it. "Ken, don't be petty. If you made a mistake, just say so. I don't care, I'm not gonna hold it against you. It's when you don't admit it that it bothers me."

"I didn't make a mistake," he asserted. "There's no reason a vagabond can't wonder stuff."

"Sure," I agreed. "But not the way you used it."

"It's like, you know the word 'bemused,' right? What does it mean?"

I thought this was a tedious way to prove a point, but I went along with it. "Confused, baffled, uncertain."

"And yet, a lot of people use it to mean something like, 'Slightly amused, mildly entertained,' and if they used it like that, you'd understand what it meant."

"They don't know what it means. They assume that because it sounds like 'amused,' it must mean something similar, and they use it wrong and sound like dumbasses. Like how people say 'nuculer' instead of 'nuclear' or 'ect cetra' instead of 'et cetera'. Just because a lot of people have a wrong in common doesn't make them right."

"If it came to anything else, I'd say that was probably the best damn way to put it I've ever heard," he said approvingly. He liked little sentiments like that; he probably went on to use it when he argued about the war, how everyone else in the country seemed to think it was right, so certainly it must be right, and how that sort of mob mentality was brainwashing everyone. "But not on this. You're wrong-o, my friend."

"Why?" I said stubbornly.

"Because if two people misunderstand a word to mean the same thing, they understand each other," he pointed out. "So the word now means something else. If enough people think a word means what they think it means, and people around them agree, then that's what the word means, right? Isn't the meaning of a word only defined by how others understand it? Don't languages exist just 'cause they're different words that different people understand?"

I just sighed. It was too early for this nonsense; far too early. Furthermore, as usual, I didn't care enough. "Even if I disagree with you, you're going to go on thinking what you think, aren't you?"

"Probably."

"Even if you're damn wrong."

"Even if you think I'm wrong," he pointed out.

"See, this goes back to the whole 'stability' thing. You complain about having an unstable life and then thrive in chaos and instability."

"And perpetual bemusement," he added. I wasn't sure if he was referring to the proper definition or its acquired one; he was grinning, as always, so it could have easily been either. Then, suddenly deferring back, "If I asked you to run away with me, even if we did end up vagrants on a street corner somewhere, what would you say?"

"You already know what I would say," I answered shortly. "I'd tell you that you're an idiot and then I'd get pissed off because I'd have to repeat everything I just said and explain why it's the shittiest idea in the world, and I would preach until I was blue in the face until I finally got through to you."

"Nice to know you care so much," he teased.

"I just don't really want-" I didn't want him to go away; I think that's what I wanted to say. I wanted him to stay with me; I think that's what I wanted to say. If he was having some minor existential crisis and talking about running away and shit and, Christ, if the other thing was possibly true, then I just wanted him to know that I did care, I cared a lot, and the thought of him just up and disappearing on me ( why are they going to disappear him? Catch-22 reminded me; it's not even good grammar! ) frightened me. I wanted him to know all of that.

"You don't want...?" he prodded me.

"Never mind," I mumbled. "Don't worry about it."

"I figured," he said.

Kenny was in a mood for the rest of the morning; he wasn't even interested in sex, which was unusual for him given his rampant libido. I wondered if he was worried about May day; I certainly had my own misgivings, especially now that the day was finally upon us and it had somehow thrust Kenny into this weirdly contemplative mindset.

But when we were dressed and ready to leave and he held up and asked me, "You ready for this?"

I just nodded and said, "Why wouldn't I be?"

Oh, but I wouldn't be. As you're well aware, the apocalypse was under way, and I'm sure the curiosity is killing you. Well, before I even start, I want to inform you that this apocalypse is nothing like those Hollywood suspense thrillers. I'll even do you a solid and tell you a few secrets: no one's going to die, (yet) I'm not going to be hurt, (much) and Kenny's going to still be around (for a while). In fact, most would argue that it proves to be an incredibly boring end of the world, but that's only if you're looking at it from afar. If you look closely, you'll see what really happens.

You know, now and then people try to tell me that they're ready for whatever apocalypse hits them. They're prepared for a nuclear apocalypse, well armed for a zombie apocalypse, well stocked for a pandemic apocalypse, but does anyone ever even consider that an apocalypse could be personal? That you could on the brink of devastation, be standing in the wake of something that was about to deal a fatal final blow, not to humanity, but to you?

This apocalypse is private, personal. It opened my eyes. It made me believe in things. It changed it all for me, and for a lot of other people. It's why you have a story to read.


End file.
